


A Man Who Regrets

by thesparklingone



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Exes, F/M, I'm Bad At Tagging, Old Relationship, Post-Canon, Seriously everyone's an ex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:08:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25136662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesparklingone/pseuds/thesparklingone
Summary: Rommath goes to visit an old love, and finally has to face some unpleasant truths.
Relationships: Aurora Skycaller/Grand Magister Rommath
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

Nearly a decade had gone by since last Rommath had walked the path to the door of the cottage in the Hinterlands. Nevertheless, he remembered the surroundings well. The path of wide, irregular flagstones still wound gently through a corridor of shrubs and fragrant herbs bursting from wooden half-barrel planters, shaded on one side by an old apple tree, on the other by an equally old pear, both thick with golden-red fruit. Their heavy, gnarled branches stretched into canopies so wide they intertwined above the path, obscuring the slate-colored sky.

He trudged on toward the house, bag in hand, doing his best to ignore both the anticipation and the apprehension that dogged him about this visit. His feelings were complicated, and he hated to indulge them.

At the front stoop, he considered the heavy wooden door for a long moment. He could still change his mind, if he wished.

He raised a fist and knocked.

Moments passed, then he heard the distinct patter of footsteps on tile, and the door swung open. Across the threshold stood Aurora, distinct as ever: short in stature, light skinned, golden hair twisted up into a bun perched on the top of her head. Her eyes shone blue, impossibly blue. He would never forget them, long as he lived.

She smiled.

“Come in Rommath, come in.” She stepped to the side, and the doorway stood empty, awaiting. No turning back now.

He had been in her home once before, not long after Vespara had burst into his life with the blast radius of a mana bomb. He remembered that visit with a knife-sharp clarity, how Aurora had faced him with frankness and transparency, and without a shred of apology. She had been a rock upon which the waves of his anger could only break.

“You can set your things down by the stairs,” she told him as she took his cloak. “It’s been rainy lately. Today’s dry at least, if not clear.” She smiled at him over her shoulder. “I put the kettle on not too long ago. There’s tea, if you want it.”

_ I would prefer brandy _ . “Yes, that would be nice, thank you.”

“Make yourself at home!” she called, as she went to fetch the mugs.

Rommath looked around. Aurora’s house wasn’t large, but it was cozy and pleasantly warm. To his left a fire burned cheerfully in the fireplace, with some comfortable-looking furniture arranged around it. He picked a big overstuffed chair and flopped into it, a bit tired from the teleport spell, and chilled from the walk up the hill.

Aurora reappeared carrying the tea service on a brass tray. As soon as she saw him she smiled broadly, her whole face lighting up, and laughed.

“What?” he asked, defensive.

She shook her head, still smiling, and set the tea service on the coffee table. “That’s Vespara’s favorite chair, as well,” she said. She glanced over. “Like father like daughter.”

“She has good taste, of course,” he replied. Aurora poured them both their tea then settled into the couch, curling her legs under her like a girl. She cupped her hands around her mug and inhaled the steam, closing her eyes, and Rommath couldn’t help but notice all this because he could barely take his eyes off her.

_ You old fool.  _ He forced himself to look down into his own mug. The tea was still too hot to drink, but its warmth felt good on his hands.

“Have you heard from her lately?” Aurora asked, and it took Rommath a moment to realize she meant Vespara. “I got a letter about a week ago.” She smiled a little, but there was a sadness behind it. “She doesn’t visit very much. Which is as it should be, but…”

_ But you miss her _ . Of course. What mother wouldn’t miss her daughter?

“I saw her in Silvermoon, three weeks ago. She said she was thinking of coming to Inthicar for the Solstice.”

“Oh? Interesting.”

“You would be welcome too, Aurora,” he said. “You know that.”

“I do. Thank you. I’ll think about it.”

_ You won’t come _ . She never did. The last--and only--time she’d spent Winter Solstice at the Alaethis manor had been years and years ago, before Vespara had been born.

“How are things in Quel’Thalas?” Aurora asked, abruptly changing the subject. Rommath guessed she was trying to distract herself from worrying about Vespara. “How are your apprentices? Have you seen Darnarian lately?”

Rommath was happy to indulge the questions. The ritual exchange of pleasantries was a welcome distraction from wondering if he’d ever see his daughter and her mother under his roof at the same time. There was plenty to be had in the way of small talk: the apprentices’ progression of skills, the latest renovations taking place along the coast in Arlothen, Inthicar’s own slow but steady reconstruction. He wasn’t aware that he had talked as much as he had until he went to wet his throat with tea and found his cup empty. When he lifted the teapot to refill it its lightness told him it, too, was drained.

“I could make more tea,” Aurora said, standing. She went to the window and brushed the curtain to one side, peeking out. “But it will be dark soon, and I want to give you the tour.” She looked back at him over her shoulder, and smiled. “Come on, now!”

He dutifully followed her as she guided him from room to room. It didn’t take long, it wasn’t a large house. She showed him where he could bathe (a bath in the room behind the kitchen; it shared a pump with the sink) and use the toilet (an outhouse--hardly the lap of luxury). He climbed the stairs behind her up to the second floor, carrying his bag along with him. Two relatively spacious bedrooms connected by a hallway with a large closet made up the top storey. Aurora directed him toward the one to the left of the stairwell and pushed open the door.

“This was Vespara’s room,” she said. “You’ll be staying here.”

It was a strange little jolt, to see--for the first time, he realized--the room his daughter had grown up in, and know that he’d be sleeping in the bed she had slept in as a child. It was a neat room, with the bed pushed against the wall underneath a broad, curtained window and an old, well-loved quilt tucked in around its corners. A dresser crowned with a mirror and a vase full of fresh autumn foliage served as night table, with a bookcase, a small desk, and a sturdy, wooden chair rounding out the furniture.

Rommath stepped inside and left his bag next to the bed.

“Let’s go for a walk out back,” Aurora said, “before the light fades.”

Her gardens were extensive, herbs and plants sprouting along the uneven ground through a haphazard, but ingenious, maze of raised beds and sloping trails. Most of them were done for the season, but Rommath spied some squash and cabbages that had yet to be harvested. More fruit trees overhung the walking trails, bare now, their narrow trunks eventually giving way to the thicker, rougher growth of aspen, fir, and pine where the garden ended and the woods began.

Rommath continued to follow Aurora in silence, the ground sloping gently toward the large creek that he knew eventually poured over the cliff to the south to fill Highvale Lake. As they drew closer, the sound and scent of running water filled the evening air. The stream wasn’t yet visible through the dense foliage, but he could feel it. Suddenly, the trees cleared and they stood at the edge of the rushing creek. He watched it tumble around the rocks and over itself, boiling and frothing, rolling inexorably on its way toward the falls and the lake, and eventually, to the sea.

_ The same sea that breaks below Inthicar _ , he found himself thinking, and then felt stupid for being sentimental.

“Thank you for humoring me with the walk,” Aurora said, watching the stream. She blinked, and turned to him. “I wanted to stretch my legs. It’s nice to have a companion.”

Rommath didn’t know how to respond, so he said nothing. Aurora looked upward, through the canopy of branches, half bare.

“It will be dark soon. Time to go back, then. The path is treacherous at night.” Then she glanced slyly over at Rommath. “Though, that’s not a problem for you.”

“I doubt it’s a problem for you, either, Priestess of the Light.”

Aurora laughed a little. “Fair enough. I can light a track if I need to, but it’s cold and damp and there’s a warm hearth waiting at home.”

It was near twilight by the time they made it back to Aurora’s cottage. Rommath figured it would be difficult to see the sunset in her little hollow, with all the trees and the surrounding hillsides. At Inthicar, the sun set behind the mountains to the west, but the manor itself wasn’t among them, and the view from the rooftop gardens was spectacular on a clear evening.

Inside the cottage, Aurora set a kettle on the stove for more tea while she prepared their evening meal of vegetable and rabbit soup, thickened with barleycorns, and a big hunk of homemade bread for dipping.

“More rustic than you’re used to, I’m certain,” she said as she sat across from him. Was there an edge to her voice? Rommath looked up, but her face was serene.

“I was a soldier once,” he said. “And a prisoner. And a refugee.”

“A refugee, I see.” She cocked her head to one side and he did not miss the way her lips thinned. He did not want their talk to go this way.

“Yes,” he answered, simply, and left it. The soup was good, rich and savory and just the very thing one would desire at the end of a damp, chilly autumn day like the one they’d had. He told her so, and that seemed to soften her a bit.

“I’m glad you like it,” she said. It occurred to Rommath that she might have worried that he wouldn’t.

They ate in awkward silence, Rommath painfully aware of the distance between them. He tried to imagine Vespara as a little girl, sitting at this same worn-out wooden table, kicking her legs under the bench, unable to touch the floor. Did Aurora cook her this soup? Did they argue over how much she ate?  _ I’m not hungry anymore, Minn’da!  _ And the bread? Did Aurora knead it herself, standing at the counter, up to her elbows in sticky dough while her daughter tugged the hem of her tunic, begging for attention? _"_ _ Minn’da! Minn’da!” _

“Is something wrong, Rommath?” Aurora’s voice broke his reverie and he started, eyes focusing suddenly on her face, round and flushed, those perfect blue eyes fixed right on him, questioning.

“Are you all right?” she asked again. He realized his hand lay against the table, spoon half slipped from his grip and tilting oddly in his bowl.

“I just, I…” he stuttered, reaching for composure. “I’m fine. Simply lost in my thoughts.” Her look didn’t change and he frowned, feeling defensive. “I’m tired. I’ve been busy.”

“No rest for the Grand Magister,” she said.

“None at all,” he replied.

When they had finished Aurora poured the remaining soup into a ceramic jug and took it down to the cellar, then tidied the kitchen while Rommath watched awkwardly from table. He was unused to being a guest like this. In Quel’Thalas, there would be servants to do the chores while the hosts, well, hosted. By the time it occurred to him to offer to help Aurora was drying her hands.

“Now that that’s taken care of, I propose we retire to relax by the fireplace,” she announced.

“I’ll join you in a moment,” he said, standing. “There’s something I need to get, first.” He caught a glimpse of Aurora’s mildly curious look before he turned to climb the stairs, seeking the bag he’d left in Vespara’s old room. When he returned, careful not to hit his head on the low beam across the bottom of the stairwell, he found Aurora back in her spot on the couch, the fire roaring, with a tray of little cakes on the coffee table.

“This is for you,” he said. He handed her a flat parcel, neatly wrapped in white paper. Aurora looked up in surprise before taking the gift.

“For me? Thank you,” she said, turning it over to find the paper’s seam.

“For having me,” he replied, sitting.

She tore at the wrapping, peeling it off and pulling it back to reveal an old, leather-bound book. When she opened the cover to read the title page, she gasped, mouth falling open in shock. At her reaction, Rommath couldn’t suppress the giddy little surge of pleasure that turned up the corners of his mouth. When she had stayed with him in Inthicar, this edition of Erilanna’s poetry had been her favorite, with dreamy, full-page watercolor illustrations and elegant print. He had known that she would love it.

“This is the copy from your library,” Aurora said, looking up at him. “There can’t be more than half a dozen of these left in Quel’Thalas. I can’t possibly accept it.”

“It’s mine to give,” he replied.

She looked back down at the book, running her fingers lightly over the open page and frowning slightly. “Thank you,” she said at last, in a soft voice. Rommath was grateful she had acquiesced without a fight.

“You’re welcome,” he replied. For a while they sat in silence, Aurora slowly flipping through the book’s pages, Rommath watching her. With his eyes he traced her profile down her forehead, along the gentle curve of her nose, over the swells of her lips, and down the sweep of her throat. Her yellow hair, all piled on top of her head, was coming loose around her ears, and thick strands of it curled around her face and down her back. He would have given nearly anything to be able to reach over and twine them through his fingers.

He heard the book snap shut and managed to avert his eyes as Aurora looked toward him, face lit by a radiant smile.  _ Light, she’s beautiful. _

“Really, I can't thank you enough,” she said, one hand resting protectively on the book cover. He shook his head.

“You don't have to,” he said. “I…” he trailed off, unwilling to say what had just gone through his head.  _ I want you to think well of me.  _ “You are welcome.”

Aurora looked down again and ran her thumb over the book’s cover. Suddenly, Rommath felt practically overcome by a wave of exhaustion and he couldn't stifle a broad yawn.

“Looks like it's time for bed,” Aurora said. A teasing hint crept into her voice. “Not as much of a night owl as I remember, Lord Alaethis.”

She smiled as she stood, setting the book on the table. “There’s a wash basin and face towel on the desk in your room, with a pitcher of water.” She glanced at him. “You might need to heat it.”

She picked up the tray of untouched cakes. “Good night, Rommath,” she said, then returned to the kitchen. He pushed himself out of the armchair and made for the stairs, pausing to peek around the door frame into the kitchen as he passed. Aurora was wrapping the uneaten cakes in clean towels and stacking them, her back to him. He watched her work for a long moment, an unpleasantly familiar hollowness aching in his chest. It was too easy to remember how she had once felt, nestled in his arms as they drifted to sleep, sharing the same bed.  _ But that is not the life I have, _ he reminded himself. He turned away from the kitchen doorway and climbed the stairs to bed, alone.


	2. Chapter 2

Muted morning light awoke him the following day as it filtered through the window curtains. He blinked, momentarily disoriented, forgetting where he was. Then he noticed the faded quilt beneath his chin, the dresser with the vase of autumn branches, and the way his legs had to fold to accommodate the narrow bed. He sat up, blinking, and tried to guess what time it was. No use; his sense for that sort of thing had always been terrible.

He rose, shivering, and dressed as quickly as he could, wincing as he splashed cold water onto his face.  _ At least I’m awake now. _ He gathered his hair into his characteristic ponytail and tied it back, then made his way downstairs.

Aurora sat at the kitchen table, newly covered with a checkered cloth since the previous night, sipping a steaming cup of black tea. Rommath recognized the little yellow cakes again, now in a pile and surrounded by jars of jam and a bowl of thickened cream. As he ambled through the doorway, bleary-eyed, she cocked her head to the side and raised her eyebrows.

“Good morning, early bird,” she quipped.

“What time is it?” he asked, plopping into the chair across from her.

“Nearly ten,” she answered, eyes twinkling.

Rommath rubbed his eyes and grunted. He had been more genuinely tired than he’d realized.

“Tea?” Aurora asked him. He nodded, and she set a fragrant mug before him.

“I have a lesson with my acolytes today,” Aurora said as he slathered cream onto a piece of cake. “They should arrive around eleven.”

“I take it I should stay out of the way.”

She hesitated.

“...Your presence would, at least, be distracting. I don’t think many of them have ever actually seen a blood elf.”

“Just heard tales of our loathsome depravity, I’m sure.”

Aurora’s eyes flashed, but she didn’t rise to the bait.

“Perhaps.” She sighed. “I’m not going to tell you to hide in the cellar. But I will be leading a lesson, and I’d prefer it to be distraction-free.”

“I suppose I can stay in Vespara’s closet of a room, then,” he said. He heard the resentment in his voice, and knew she did, too.

Aurora’s eyebrows shot up. “What? No, you can stay in the house, of course. Oh.” She stopped. “I guess I didn’t mention the lessons were outside.”

“You did not,” he admonished.

“Well, they are. As long as it isn’t pouring rain or snowing.” Her eyes twinkled at him from over the rim of her mug. “You should have been able to guess, you know. I seem to remember your apprentices practicing on the east terrace at Inthicar.”

“With  _ magic _ , yes,” he replied. “A rather volatile energy, you know. I didn’t think the Light posed similar problems.”

“Then you didn’t think very much, did you? You’ve seen warriors of the Light in battle, Rommath. Liadrin, at least. The way she wields the Light these days is hardly healing. Anyway--” she continued before he could make a comment “--these are students. Mastery of the Light is a matter of will, and most of them have plenty of that, but control and finesse aren’t their strong suits, yet.” She sipped her tea. “That’s where I come in.”

Rommath half-smiled, and took a second cake from the diminished pile. The raspberry jam was just the right balance of sweet and tart against the buttery yellow cake. Perfection.

“These are delicious,” he said.

Aurora pushed the plate further toward him.

“Have as many as you like. I still make them like Vespara lives here, but I’m the only one around to eat them.”

“Fob them off on your acolytes.”

“I do, normally. I don’t think there will be enough left, today, though,” she said, watching him start on his third cake.

“Their misfortune is my gain.” At that, Aurora laughed.

“Indeed it is.” She drained her tea and stood, clearing her plates. “I’ll make some for them next week, I suppose.”

Aurora left him in the kitchen alone with the plate of cakes, now three short of what it had been. Unthinkingly, he stretched his hand out to take a fourth, then paused. She would probably tease him for being such a glutton.  _ But why should I care what she thinks? _ he immediately rebutted to himself, then let his hand fall to the table, frowning. This was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous.

He did not take a fourth cake.

As he leisurely sipped his tea, Aurora returned, her clothing changed. Instead of the thick, knit tunic and trousers she had been wearing, she wore a full length, stiff and finely woven woolen robe of white, skillfully embroidered with blue and gold trim and belted at the waist with a sky-blue silk sash. Around her neck hung a long, matching blue tippet with the Sunstrider phoenix emblazoned at each end.

Rommath’s breath caught in his throat. It had been decades and decades since he’d seen that golden device on a field of blue. It had been standard for the Thalassian priesthood, once upon a time, in days now long, long gone. How had Aurora even managed to find traditional priest’s vestments? Even if any had survived Arthas’ invasion, which he doubted, the old Temple of the Light had never been rebuilt and the priesthood had never recovered. What elven priests did remain in Silvermoon were a loosely-affiliated coalition, with little formal structure, even now. In post-Sunstrider Quel’Thalas, the representatives of the Light were the Blood Knights, with Liadrin at their helm.

“Rommath? Hello?” Aurora’s voice pierced his thoughts. He looked up, finding her eyes on him.

“Are you finished with breakfast?” she asked, for what he guessed was now the second or third time.

“Er, yes,” he answered. She made no comment on his daydreaming and began to clear the table, stacking the empty plates, fixing the lids back into place on the jam jars. As she picked up the now-empty bowl that had held the cream, she opened her mouth and made as if to lick the spoon. Then her eyes darted toward him, and she stopped. Her gaze fell, and she dropped the spoon into the bowl. Turning her back to him, she deposited the bowl into the sink with the rest of the dishes.

Rommath’s heart twisted.

He had never met his daughter until her adulthood. He had never even known she existed until he had received an unexpected letter on an otherwise completely banal spring afternoon, the handwriting on the envelope sending his heart into his throat. Vespara had been on the cusp of her 35th birthday, the Thalassian age of majority. The one thing she wanted for her coming-of-age, Aurora’s letter had explained, was to know her father.

That first day, that most excruciating, stilted, awkward day of his life, he had sat across from his daughter in the sunroom at Inthicar, afternoon tea spread on the table between them, Vespara talking, talking, pouring out stories of her life at Quel’Danil, and her mother, and her friends, spinning a thread toward the father whose face she was only now seeing exactly mirrored her own, inviting him into the fabric of her life. And he, discomfited, defensive, cornered, was only half listening as he watched her pluck the spoon out of the empty bowl of cream and stick it in her mouth. And he had scowled, and lost his temper, interrupting and informing her that he didn’t care  _ how _ she’d been raised in that filthy, backwater hovel of a ranger post, no daughter of his was  _ ever _ going to be seen in civilized society putting servingware into her mouth. Vespara’s eyes had widened, then dropped, and the spoon went onto her plate, her hands into her lap, the stories broken off mid-sentence, the thread snapped. That delicate, hopeful anxiety had been smashed like a teacup, and he had spent the last six years trying desperately to regain the trust he had so thoughtlessly discarded.

Rommath blinked, disoriented, shaken by the power of the memory provoked by a single, wordless gesture. Aurora was tying the remaining, uneaten cakes back up in the cotton towels. The blue tippet around her neck fluttered as she turned, the golden phoenixes at its ends dancing like flames.

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll spill something?” he blurted.

Aurora paused and glanced over her shoulder at him. “Hmm?”

“On your robe. It’s white. It’s…” he trailed off as she smiled.

“It’s enchanted,” she replied. “It can’t stain. Honestly, Rommath, you should have been able to guess.”

He was silent a while longer as she continued to tidy up.

“I haven’t seen those vestments since Anasterian’s reign,” he said, quietly. Aurora stopped what she was doing, but did not turn to face him. She stood, unmoving, for a long moment.

“I commissioned them from the dwarves,” she said, finally. “There was no one at Aerie Peak with the requisite skill for the embroidery, and I didn’t have all the materials for the enchantments. They had to send for a master tailor in Ironforge. I bartered a small fortune in potions and herbs for the fabric and the labor.” She sighed. “And I trained three dwarven students from initiate to full priest, in exchange for the enchanting dust, as well.” Rommath saw her fingers trail along the skirt of the robe. “It took twenty years. It was worth it.

“My students should arrive soon,” she continued, not giving him a chance to reply. “I will wait for them outside. There are some books on the shelves under the staircase, if you’re bored. And a few packs of cards in one of the drawers somewhere, if you prefer solitaire. The lesson shouldn’t last longer than a couple of hours.” Pointedly ignoring his eyes, she turned and left the room. Behind him, he heard the front door to the house open and close.

Being around Aurora had always felt like walking straight into a memory playing anew. Even in the strange and unfamiliar setting of her cottage, a place he had only ever seen once before, chunks of the past came hurtling back to him like meteors from the sky. Everything from her still-blue eyes to her old Thalassian priest’s robe was a tiny, painful journey into a life he had done his best to discard.

_ What’s next? _ he asked himself.  _ Will an apprentice of Dalaran stop by for a chat? _ Maybe Archmage Modera would waltz right in through the door, nevermind that her grave had been cold for fifty years. Elbows on the table, Rommath rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. This was no good. He needed to occupy himself with something.

He stood and headed to the bookshelf to see what might be there.

Not much of interest, as it turned out. A few tomes on gardening and herbalism, a very battered-looking handbook of enchantments, an old Thalassian prayer book-- _ Where in the world did she find a copy of that? _ \--a couple of volumes in what looked to be Dwarvish-- _ Really? Can she even read that? _ \--and little else. The book of poetry he had given her, he noticed, was absent. He wondered if he would find it on her bedside table upstairs, though he wouldn’t dare look. Overall, Aurora’s bookcase held a disappointingly meager collection, especially considering how much he remembered her enjoying reading.

Bored, he began to wander about the house. He circled through the living room, through the kitchen and wash room, and into the other corner of the house that seemed to serve as a kind of office or writing room. There was a small desk, with a notebook on it, and an inkwell, and several pens stacked neatly. Rommath stared at the notebook, sorely tempted to lift its cover and look inside, but voices outside the window drew his attention instead.

The angle wasn’t ideal, but if he craned his neck he could catch a glimpse of the group of Aurora’s students. There didn’t seem to be many of them, maybe six or seven. Someone was talking, but he couldn’t make out who. It didn’t sound like Aurora.

What was a priest’s training like? He’d never put much thought into it. He’d respected the Temple of the Light as a political force in old Quel’Thalas, and of course the work of healing and tending to the ill and infirm was laudable, but the faith of the Light had never moved him. The history of its development was clear: Elune worship became personally unpalatable and politically unwise with the exile of Dath’Remar Sunstrider and all his allies--the founding ancestors of Quel’Thalas--but the raw  _ power _ of its magic still existed, of course, and tradition was tradition. When the quel’dorei had made contact with the humans of Lordaeron during the Troll Wars, nostalgic grandchildren of the Highborne exiles had seized the opportunity to revive the priesthood, newly structured around the human perception of worship of the Light. It was doubly distasteful by the time of Kael’thas’ generation, Rommath thought: kaldorei spiritual beliefs wrapped in human liturgy and served up as a cornerstone of Thalassian culture. Insulting didn’t even begin to describe it. Arcane magic was the true inheritance of the quel’dorei. Their refusal to give up that birthright had been the impetus for their exile from Kalimdor, after all. The study, preservation, and expansion of magic was the  _ real _ pride of the Thalassian people, and his own pride, without question.

Still, he was curious. Curious and bored.

Quietly, Rommath let himself out the back door, into the gardens. Aurora and her students were around the corner of the house, out of view behind the raised garden beds, dense with dead foliage. He could hear the voice clearly now, and he had been correct, it was not Aurora’s. By the timbre, he guessed an adolescent boy. Rommath tilted his head to the side and listened. It sounded like an incantation.

Rommath followed the trail he and Aurora had taken the previous evening, toward the river. As he approached the wood at the edge of the garden he doubled back toward the house, taking an arcing path among the trees, staying out of sight. He achieved his goal fairly easily, and settled into a spot where he could see Aurora’s class, but was confident they couldn’t see him.

From his vantage point, the students all had their backs to him, and blocked Aurora entirely. Five acolytes were quel’dorei and two were dwarves. That was unexpected. She had mentioned training dwarves as part of her payment for her Thalassian vestments, but surely that was over? Was she taking dwarven students out of charity, now?

_ Or maybe they pay her and she needs the money _ , he found himself thinking.  _ Or maybe it’s a diplomatic move, to keep the neighbors happy.  _ And then:  _ Or maybe she takes whoever wishes to learn _ .

Yes, that did sound like something she would do.

One by one, Aurora’s students went through a holy incantation. First they recited the words, then the gestures that accompanied it. This was familiar to him, all apprentice mages did the same. Spells generally required both words and physical movement to perform and by practicing the components separately, one minimized the risk of a dangerous error. As skill in the arts increased, a practitioner came to understand the essential gestures and the precise motions necessary to the heart of the spell, and movements became minimal. An expert mage such as himself didn’t need elaborate gesticulation to control magic. Rommath supposed it was the same for the Light.

He wasn’t surprised to hear Aurora’s dwarven students perform their incantations in Dwarvish, but he was genuinely taken aback to hear Aurora comment back to them in Dwarvish.  _ So she does speak it _ . He’d have to ask her when she had learned.

The acolytes moved on to practicing the actual spell, one at a time. They shuffled around, giving the practitioner space, and as they spread out Aurora stepped clearly into Rommath’s view.

He couldn’t stop his small, sharp intake of breath. Light, she was still so beautiful, and especially so in her formal vestments. How had he missed it earlier? His hungry gaze swept over her, lingering over the curve of her hips, expertly emphasized by the silken sash. The matching tippet draped over her breasts, which were de-emphasized by the cut of the robe’s collar but, oh, he remembered them well, and they were perfect. Her hair was in its characteristic chignon, but more carefully done than the previous night. Today, there was no strand out of place.

His chest ached. Why, why, after all this time did he still feel like this? Why did it still hurt so damned much, and why did he still long for the woman who had so efficiently cut him out of her life, not once, but twice?

_ May as well ask why your hair is black, and hers yellow _ , a bitter voice sounded in his head. Because it was the way of things, because this is how he had been shaped, for better and worse. It wasn’t his first time around on the particular and unpleasant wheel of unrequited love.  _ You know how to choose them, all right. _ Aurora had at least returned his feelings once, perhaps.

Now she worked alongside one of her quel’dorei acolytes, performing the spell’s actions along with her, leading by example. At the conclusion, a great flare of golden light enveloped both priestess and student, wreathing their hair, casting a honeyed sheen onto Aurora’s face. Her blue eyes shone beneath it, steady as the summer sky.

Rommath leaned against a tree trunk. His throat hurt, his chest hurt, his belly felt hollow. It had been a mistake to come out and watch her, his golden priestess. He should have stayed indoors where he could neither see nor feel her magic. Once, years ago, when they had been lovers, he’d pinned her to the bed and asked her what else she might pray to besides the Light, intending to make her call out his name before they finished. He’d been too stupid to realize that he was the one being ensnared, and that by the end, it would be his devotion that had been won, not hers. Now, like the devoted subject he was, he stayed, and he watched.

He didn’t know how long he stood there. Aurora had said the lesson would last an hour or two, and by the end, his legs ached with stiffness. Across the garden, the acolytes were gathering their belongings, nodding to Aurora as she outlined the things she wanted them to practice for the next time, and glancing nervously toward the overcast sky. At last, they began to shuffle off in the opposite direction, disappearing around the front of the house. Rommath slipped from his concealment among the trees, and stepped into the garden. Aurora wasn’t looking toward him, and as he approached, he cleared his throat.

She whirled around, startled, blinking at him.

“Oh,” she said. “It’s you. I thought you were inside. Did you go for a walk?”

“I watched your class,” he answered.

“Oh,” she said again.

“That spell you practiced,” he said, “with your student. It was beautiful.”

“Yes,” she replied, and made no further comment.

Rommath walked over to the low stone retaining wall delineating one of the garden beds, and sat down. It was sweet relief to bend his knees. After a moment, Aurora joined him.

“It will rain this evening,” she said, looking up toward the sky. “The clouds are getting darker, and the wind is from the east.”

He made some sound of acknowledgement, but he was only half listening. Instead he was watching her face, her head tilted back, eyeing the clouds. Her lips parted as she exhaled, and he found himself leaning, ever so slightly, toward her as his heart quickened its rhythm in his chest. Aurora glanced at him, and must have seen the look in his eyes, but her face betrayed nothing. Serene, composed, the consummate priestess, she remained perfectly poised, motionless, until Rommath saw her lift her chin toward him, her eyelids falling closed. He shut his own eyes, trusting his mouth would find hers. By now they were so close he could practically feel the heat from her skin.

“Um, Lady Skycaller? I think I forgot… oh!” the unfamiliar voice pierced their silence like a lance. Rommath jerked away from Aurora, head snapping up, to find himself staring straight at one of the high elf acolytes, who was frozen, eyes wide, in a half-crouch, as he reached toward something on the ground.

Wordlessly, Aurora stood, dusting off her skirt.

“Yes, Tharoden?” she asked.

The acolyte blinked, tearing his gaze from Rommath’s.

“Ah, I’m-I’m sorry to, ah, interrupt, Lady,” he stammered. “I, uh, I left one of my bags here, in the grass…”

Tharoden fumbled around on the ground before holding up a small canvas knapsack and smiling awkwardly. “This is it. I, ah, I’ll just… go now.”

Aurora smiled warmly, completely self-composed-- _ How,  _ how, _ does she do that? _ \--and nodded once. “I’m glad you found what you were looking for, Tharoden,” she said. “Safe journey back to Quel’Danil. I will see you next week.”

Aurora’s student bowed to her, but Rommath saw his eyes flicker over toward him. He made a point to stare back hard, sneering slightly, until Tharoden averted his gaze. With a final, backward glance, the acolyte left for his home.

A long silence stretched after his departure.

“He saw you properly, didn’t he,” Aurora said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” Rommath replied. “I looked him in the eye before I could think to do otherwise.”

“Of all the days he could forget his bag.” Aurora looked up to the sky again. “What’s done is done. We’ll see what happens.”

Rommath raised his eyebrows and stood to follow her. “What happens?” he asked, as they re-entered the house. “Don’t tell me they’ve cursed the woods against sin’dorei, or something ridiculous.”

Aurora laughed softly, but there was a bitter undercurrent to it. “When I came back from my time with you at Inthicar, pregnant with Vespara, I hoped that it wouldn’t matter. The rangers knew I had been in Quel’Thalas but they didn’t know where, necessarily. When my belly started to grow, so did the rumors, but I still thought it might work out. Darnarian offered to claim paternity of the child, even though he knew it had to be yours. He knew what that would mean for me, living here. So he said I could say he was the father, and he’d deal with the fallout. It was very generous of him.”

“Oh yes,” Rommath snapped, sarcasm thick in his voice, “extremely generous of him to keep me ignorant of my own daughter’s existence.”

Aurora closed her eyes.

“Be angry with me, Rommath, not him,” she said. “I didn’t plan on telling him, but he surprised me with a visit when I was about eight months along. He knew I’d been at Inthicar, of course, and put two and two together. I swore him to secrecy. I said I’d curse him, and I meant it.” She shook her head. “Of course, it came to nothing in the end, because Vespara was born with green eyes, and by six months old she had a head full of black hair, and by her first birthday, she was you in miniature. There was no hiding her paternity.”

“Except from her father himself,” he interrupted, his words still laced with bitterness.

Aurora sighed.

“Why do you think I live up here, and not down in the ranger lodge with the rest of them, Rommath?” she asked. She laughed quietly, resignedly. “I’ve managed to make my peace with most of them by now. They’ll send me their children to train in the way of the Light, at least. But there are a few…” she trailed off.

When he didn't reply, she turned and climbed the stairs. He heard the door to her room close.

Rommath paced around the front room, at the base of the stairs, irritated and restless. That stupid high elf acolyte. Why did he have to have forgotten his bag on this precise day? Rommath could still practically feel Aurora’s breath on his skin as he leaned in…

He rubbed his hand against his face. No use. The moment had been lost.

_ Stupid, stupid boy _ , he thought again.

He heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up. Aurora had changed out of her formal robes, back into a simple tunic and trousers, with soft-soled slippers on her feet.

“It’s lunch time,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

“Not particularly.”

Aurora gave him a sly look. “How many cakes did you eat this morning?”

“Only the three,” he answered, after a pause.  _ With jam and cream _ , he added, silently.

Aurora laughed a little. “I see.”

He followed her into the kitchen anyway, craving her company.

Rommath sat at the table while Aurora gathered for herself a simple lunch of bread, cheese, fruit, and coarsely-pounded hazelnut butter. After she sat she caught him eyeing the cheese and laughed, pushing the plate toward him.

“I got out more than I needed,” she said, eyes twinkling. “I thought you might want something.”

“It looks too good to resist,” he replied, helping himself to a piece of the sharp cheddar and a few slices of apple.

They ate for a while in surprisingly comfortable silence, and when they had finished Aurora bade him to wait while she fetched something upstairs. Curious, Rommath did as he was asked.

“In here,” she called as she returned down the stairs.

He took up his seat in the overstuffed chair, same as the night before. On the couch, Aurora sat with the book of Erilanna’s poetry open on her lap, flipping idly through the pages. She looked up at him and smiled.

“I love this one,” she said, and began to read aloud. Rommath recognized the verse in its first lines. “Barren Spring” was its title, intentionally ironic, as the poem described in heavy detail the overwhelming fecundity of Quel’Thalas at springtime, contrasting that lush beauty with the writer’s grief over the death of her ranger lover. A spiritual barrenness, really. It was one of those classic pieces of literature that every Thalassian child heard at some point, nonetheless, in Rommath’s opinion, it wasn’t Erilanna’s best.

Still, it was lovely, and Aurora’s fluid reading certainly elevated it beyond his normal indifference. Rommath closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the chair. Aurora’s voice perfectly pitched to the poem’s chanting rhythm. Like this, it was easy to imagine her as High Priestess, leading the congregation of Silvermoon in worship and ritual. She spoke so smoothly and with such grace, in a voice as rich as honey.

During the year she had lived at Inthicar, she had often spent afternoons in his library, reading. One day he had gone to fetch her for a game of altho when he’d caught her reciting poetry aloud, just like this. Her back had been to him, and he’d stood inconspicuously listening to her for many minutes, drinking in the liquor of her voice. When he did finally reveal himself, he requested she read another, and to his surprise, she had. After that, he’d often asked her to read for him. He wondered what had inspired her to do it now, though he wasn’t complaining, and he wouldn’t ask.

When she finished, she chose another, and after that, another. Time seemed to float by, buoyed by the currents of her voice. He didn’t know how long he sat and listened, and only wondered when Aurora paused and waved her hand to light one of the room’s enchanted lamps against the steadily dimming afternoon, made darker by thickening cloud cover. In the temporary silence, they were both startled by heavy pounding on the door.

Aurora looked up, blinking, and frowned. Rommath made to stand, but Aurora threw him a sharp look and shook her head, several times, pressing a finger against her lips. Her brow furrowed, she took a few steps toward the door, and answered.

The door hinges were on the same side of the frame as the living room, meaning that the door opened facing the kitchen. Whoever was outside couldn’t see the chair in which Rommath sat, and he instantly understood that to be a good thing.

“I heard you have a visitor, Aurora.” The voice on the other side of the door was deep, male, and utterly contemptuous.

Aurora immediately stepped outside and shut the door behind her, leaving Rommath alone in the house. The sound was cut off, and he couldn’t hear her response. He went to the wall and leaned his head against the window frame, delicately lifting the edge of the curtain just enough to allow him a narrow view of the front stoop.

He couldn’t see much of Aurora, who stood with her back to the front door, but he could see the man speaking to her--a tall, burly, pale-skinned ranger with jet-black hair partially braided up into a topknot and horsetail, similar to the way Lor’themar often wore his.  _ A ranger lord _ , Rommath thought, then recognition hit him all at once.

_ Ranger Lord Hawkspear _ .

Hawkspear, along with Aurora herself, had led the dissent against the magic siphoning techniques that Rommath had, at Kael’thas’ order, brought to Quel’Thalas from Outland. Despite the incredible toll the magic addiction enacted upon all Thalassian elves, Aurora, Hawkspear, and their allies--mostly rangers and priests--had utterly rejected taking magic from any new source, and directed their considerable fury over the proposal at Rommath. He had responded in kind. Branding them traitors, directly in opposition to a royal decree, he had made a case for their forced exile, and strong-armed Lor’themar into enforcing it. Both Lor’themar and Halduron had hated him for that, hated him for years. But they had seen his wisdom, nonetheless, and any elf who did not wish to siphon magic had been made to leave Quel’Thalas. As exiles, they had made their home in the Lordaeron ranger post of Quel’Lithien, until some unspecified disaster had left most of the Lithien rangers dead. Rommath had no idea what had happened there, and he had never asked. The few survivors had dispersed. Hawkspear had eventually made his way here, to Quel’Danil. Aurora had gone back to Quel’Thalas.

_ Where I met her again _ , Rommath thought. He tried not to think about how he had pursued her, and how she had first spurned, then accepted his advances… and finally, chosen exile again rather than to continue with him.

Rommath let the curtain drop. Hawkspear was furious. Against the window, Rommath could hear one voice--Hawkspear’s, for he was shouting--but he couldn’t make out the words. His curiosity was insatiable. He made for the rear door of Aurora’s house, shutting it quietly behind him.

There were mage spells for concealment. It wasn’t his specialty, as far as schools of magic went, and invisibility spells tended to be taxing even to highly experienced practitioners, but this was a worthy cause. He gathered himself, closed his eyes, and with a few murmured words, he drew the cloaking magic around him. When he was certain he was imperceptible, he walked quietly around to the front of the house.

“...Not enough that you birthed his child, apparently, now you have to invite him to our home!” Hawkspear was pointing at Aurora’s sternum with his index finger.

“My house is my house, Renthar,” Aurora answered him, her voice steady, though strained. “I am free to invite guests as I see fit.”

Hawkspear paced around in a small circle. “A blood elf!  _ That  _ blood elf! In our lands! I would say you should know better but what’s the use? You didn’t know better than to fuck him, either!”

Rommath bristled at that comment, and felt his control of the invisibility spell waver. He forced himself to exhale, and tried to remain calm. He could certainly take down Renthar Hawkspear--especially with the element of surprise on his side--but it would be pointless, and politically reckless, to do so. Should he threaten Aurora, however...

Carefully, voice still quiet, and with a cautious undercurrent, Aurora replied.

“We are allowed on blood elf lands, given particular circumstances. I have allowed a blood elf onto my property, under particular circumstance.”

“The circumstance of sucking his cock?” Renthar jeered. Rommath wanted to kill him. Aurora’s expression revealed nothing, blank as a stone. He clenched his fists until he could feel his nails digging into his palms.  _ Breathe _ , he told himself. The spell was a weighted blanket, growing heavier by the moment. It didn’t hurt yet, but it would. Renthar continued, “This isn’t even your property. It’s the property of the Quel’Danil Lodge.”

“I live on it, and I maintain it,” Aurora replied. “If I invite my daughter’s father to come see the home where his child grew up, that is not unreasonable.”

“Unreasonable!” Now Hawkspear was truly shouting. “ _ You’re _ the one who took the  _ Grand Magister _ into her bed and I’m--”

“That will be  _ enough _ , Ranger Lord,” a third voice called. Rommath looked over, down the path that led away from Aurora’s house. Another high elf approached, a middle-aged woman, tall and lithe, with golden-brown skin and glossy brown hair pulled into a ponytail. She strode purposefully, with the easy grace of a lifelong ranger. A long, curved saber was sheathed at her side.

“You’ve made your point to half the wood by now,” she said. “I could hear you all the way down the track. Stand down.”

Renthar looked absolutely furious, but he was nothing if not a consummate Farstrider. He saluted, then moved to let the woman, clearly his ranking officer, pass.

She nodded toward the trail. “You are dismissed. Return to Quel’Danil Lodge at once. I will catch up to you. That is a direct order.”

Renthar’s scowl deepened, but he complied, bowing, nearly stomping his way back down the path, disappearing among the trees. When he was gone, the woman turned toward Aurora, and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Is what Tharoden said true?” she asked. “Is there a blood elf here, and is it who we all think?”

For a moment, Aurora didn’t move. Then, slowly, she nodded.

The woman sighed.

“I’m not upset. He’s clearly not a threat to us, and as you said, I don’t begrudge a man a look at his daughter’s home. However,” she paused, and her voice grew softer. “I can’t help but be worried for  _ you _ , Aurora.”

“He is the father of my child, Jalinde,” Aurora said, equally softly, and Rommath understood who the woman was: Jalinde Summerdrake, Ranger Lord of Quel’Danil Lodge. She had been Ranger Lord of Quel’Danil Lodge since Rommath was a small child.

“That entitles him to nothing from you, Aurora,” Jalinde said.

“I know,” Aurora responded, after a moment. “But I…” she inhaled sharply. “I miss him, too.”

Rommath’s heart nearly stopped at Aurora’s admission. Then, it skipped another beat as he saw Aurora’s hand rise to cover Jalinde’s on her shoulder, as she looked up plaintively into the taller woman’s face.

Rommath had a feeling they were not simply friendly acquaintances.

Jalinde raised her fingers to brush Aurora’s cheek, and his suspicions grew.

“Take care of yourself, Aurora,” Jalinde said. “Send word if you need anything. I’ll keep Renthar busy for a few days. I need to send a patrol out east, anyway.”

“Thank you,” Aurora replied.

Jalinde squeezed Aurora’s shoulder, then turned and left. Aurora stood in front of the house, hands folded against the skirt of her tunic, and watched her go.

As soon as they were alone, Rommath dropped the invisibility spell. He nearly sighed aloud in relief.

Aurora didn't even blink.

“I thought you might be there,” she said, still looking after Jalinde. “I could feel the magic.”

Rommath knew that priests studied methods of countering and dispelling enchantments such as spells of invisibility. Aurora could have revealed him to the other high elves, and had chosen not to.

_ As much for her own sake as mine _ , he thought. She turned and went back into the house, leaving the door open. Rommath followed her, taking a few moments to catch his breath after the spell. Once inside he found Aurora leaning her back against the kitchen doorway, one hand pressed over her eyes.

He stopped and watched her, unsure of what, if anything, to say. After a time, she spoke.

“I wish you would have stayed in the house this morning.”

Rommath’s temper flared.

“If I’d known you expected me to skulk about like a rat, I’d have stayed home.”

Aurora’s jaw tightened. “Maybe you should have,” she replied. Abruptly she pushed away from the door frame and stood up. “I need to check the garden.” Before Rommath could blink, she had strode out of the room, toward the back of the house. He heard the door slam shut.

He clenched both his fists and ground his knuckles into his forehead. Of course, he should know better by now than to snap at Aurora. She never took the bait. She would leave him before she indulged his temper--leave the room or leave to live in a cottage in the woods halfway across the continent.

It infuriated him, of course.

He found her in the garden, on her knees in the dirt among the cabbages. A woven basket sat at the end of the row and he picked it up, in silence, and brought it to where she was expertly--if aggressively--cutting the green heads away from their roots. She glanced up at him and some unreadable expression flitted across her face. Wordlessly, she returned to her work, and began to add the freshly cut cabbage heads into the basket he held.

They worked like that for long minutes, the only sounds the shifting of earth as Aurora dug around the greens, and the crack of their stems being sliced from the ground. The late afternoon light barely filtered through the thick, gray clouds above them. When they reached the end of the row, Aurora stood, brushing vigorously at the dirt on her tunic and trousers. Rommath was surprised by the heft of all the cabbage in the basket. There were maybe ten heads, and they were heavier than he would have guessed.

She nodded once at him.

“Thank you for carrying them,” she said, then walked toward the house without a single backward glance.

Rommath swore under his breath. He felt the petulant urge to dump the vegetables back onto the ground, but contained himself. That would be childish, and also, Aurora was annoyed enough at him already.

Again, he followed her inside. In the kitchen, Aurora took the basket and laid out all the cabbage heads on the counter, pumping cold water into the sink. As she began to wash them, Rommath couldn’t bear the silence any longer.

“What will you do with them all?” he asked.

Aurora didn’t answer right away, but he could tell by the way her eyes darted toward him that she had been listening.

“I’ll pickle most of them with salt,” she said, finally, “to eat over the winter. One or two I’ll make into salad for now.” She paused, then sighed. “Vespara and I used to do this together.”

“Can’t any of the rangers, or your acolytes, help you?”

Aurora snorted. “You saw what the rangers think of me.”

“Ranger Lord Summerdrake seemed rather fond of you,” he replied. Aurora glanced at him over her shoulder.

“Ranger Lord Summerdrake has more important concerns,” she said, after a pause, and said nothing further. She shook water from her hands and laid the newly cleaned cabbages out on towels along the counter. Rommath simply watched her. He took every opportunity he could to watch her, squirreling away memories of her like precious gems in a vault. He would be reminded, later, at home, by some trick of the light, perhaps, and in his mind’s eye would suddenly bloom a moment--the way she tilted her head back when she laughed, or the movement of her fingers across the page of a book. These things sustained him, small and scant as they were.

The silence in the kitchen pressed like a snowdrift until the sharp patter of raindrops against the window above the sink sliced through it and shook them both out of their brooding.

“Are you hungry?” Aurora asked him.

Rommath shook his head. “No.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you said at lunch time, too,” she replied. “Are you ever hungry?”

Several sarcastic replies to that question flitted through Rommath’s head, but he gauged indulging that impulse to be unwise. Truth was, he probably should eat, if only because the invisibility spell had been tiring, and even if he didn’t feel it quite yet, he would.

“All right, all right,” he finally answered her, though his voice came out more snitty than he intended. “I wouldn’t mind something to eat, if you’re offering.”

“I am,” she replied. She disappeared around the corner and down the cellar stairs, returning with the jug of leftover soup from the previous night, and one additional, smaller, ceramic bottle, its stopper sealed with old, brown wax. The soup she poured into a pot and set it on the stove to heat. The smaller jug she opened with a knife and poured into a pitcher. To Rommath’s great surprise, it turned out to be wine.

“You have wine?” he asked. “Why didn’t you bring this out last night?

Aurora served it with a kind of half-smile on her face.

“Well, I had honestly forgotten until I saw it on the shelf downstairs. It’s, ah, it’s been down there a while.”

Rommath lifted the cup to his nose and inhaled. He grimaced.

“You see why I did my best to forget about it,” she said.

“Did you make this yourself?” he sniffed at it again. Still awful.

“I grow grapes. One year I tried my hand at winemaking.” She shrugged. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”

“It certainly smells like something,” he said, and she laughed.

“You see why I only tried once.”

_ She laughed _ , he thought. His heart leaped. Perhaps she was no longer cross with him.

“Let me know if you’d like it watered down,” Aurora told him. “Or, if it’s truly unbearable, I’ll mull it with some spices for after we eat.”

Rommath took a skeptical sip of Aurora’s wine. He tried to cover a cough by clearing his throat.

“Verdict?” Aurora asked. Her eyes twinkled. Rommath paused.

“I’ve had worse,” he said.

“Liar,” she replied, laughing again.  _ Light, her smile’s beautiful _ . She stood. “The soup should be warm by now.”

The soup was even better on its second night, the flavors deeper, richer. There was more crusty bread, and they dealt with the wine by watering it to within an inch of its life.

“It’s not half bad when you can hardly taste it,” Rommath observed. “I bet you could serve it like this over ice in June with some crushed mint and call it ‘summer cordial’ or something ridiculous and it would be the talk of Silvermoon.”

“Very funny,” she said, but she still sounded in good humor. “Do you have vineyards at all at Inthicar? I’d have guessed so.”

“Why is that?”

She shrugged. “The climate seems right for it. Hot, dry summers.”

He shook his head. “Winters are too cold,” he said. “The east wind off the sea is brutal that time of year.”

She was silent a moment, her head tilted slightly to one side, lost in thought. “I suppose so,” she replied, slowly. “I do seem to recall it being very cold around the Solstice. Pity,” she continued, looking at him. “Seems like the kind of thing you’d like.”

“The best Thalassian vineyards were always in the south,” he said. He paused. “It’s still uncultivable down there, since the War.”

“Have there been any improvements?”

“Some,” he said. “Close to the Elrendar, it’s much better. “Suncrown is habitable again. Some people are even moving in.”

Aurora didn’t say anything for a while, her eyes gazing over the rim of her glass, lost in memory. At length, she sighed. “Slow progress is better than none, I suppose.”

Rommath said nothing. It was, she was right, but slow progress was also maddening, and frustrating, and discouraging. As if reading his thoughts, Aurora spoke.

“I grew up in the mountains north of An’telas,” she said. “I… don’t suppose they are healing?”

“They are,” Rommath said. “Slowly. It wouldn’t be like how you remember them.”  _ It may never be again. _

“No,” she said. “I didn’t think so.” She set her glass on the table and traced her thumb around the rim, staring blankly into the middle distance, lost in some reminiscence.

“Well,” she said abruptly, shaking her head, “it doesn’t matter. I’ll never see An’telas again.”

“Why not?” he replied, unthinkingly.

Her head whipped up, eyes dark with sudden rage. “Because you and Lor’themar banned me and everyone like me from Quel’Thalas! Or have you forgotten?”

Rommath clenched his fists under the table, biting his tongue.  _ This again?  _ he wanted to yell,  _ Always this? Will I never be free of it? _

Through gritted teeth he managed to say, “You know I have not.”

He expected her to retort with something nasty but she only cocked her head to one side, eyeing him, that dark expression still haunting her eyes.

“Of course not,” she said, after a time. “You can’t. Not anymore. Not since it’s actually cost you something you want.”

Her words were like blades and all the sharper for their truth. She knew it, and he was smarter than to try to protest. This wasn’t the first time she had said as much.

“We have been over this,” he said, working hard to control his voice. “In  _ excruciating _ detail.”

Abruptly she stood, grabbing their dishes and whirling away from the table, toward the counter. He heard the ceramic plates clatter dangerously as she practically dropped them into the sink. Her arms worked the pump, anger apparent in each violent pull on the handle, water sloshing into the basin in huge, uneven glugs.

Rommath said nothing as she turned again, her face a mask of fury, and whisked the cups and silverware from the table, tossing those in the sink to join the others. She pretended he wasn’t there as she scrubbed their dishes, venting a considerable wellspring of rage that he hadn’t realized was still there on the spoons and bowls. After interminable minutes had gone by she slowed, and eventually she stopped altogether, the clean dishes arranged in a line on the counter, beside the cabbages. Her shoulders heaved as she breathed, shaking more than a little.

He took the risk.

“What will it take for us to be done with this, Aurora?” He sat there, looking at her back, and waited.

After what seemed like an eternity, she spoke.

“What would it have taken for you to forgive the Kirin Tor?” she asked.

Rommath blinked, Of all the things for her to possibly say, this question, he had not expected.

“I--what?”

Aurora turned around. The look on her face made him start with surprise. Her anger, he was used to. But this was different. She peered at him with a hard, but analytical, intensity.

“The Kirin Tor,” she repeated. “Modera. Ansirem. When they lived, what could they have done to earn your forgiveness?”

He snorted. “Nothing. Why do you ask?”

She tilted her head. Her expression softened slightly. “Then I suppose there is nothing you can do to earn mine.”

“Excuse me?”

Aurora looked at the ceiling. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you don’t see--or don’t want to see--the parallel.” She crossed her arms.

“The Kirin Tor allowed you and your fellows to be sentenced to death because it was politically inconvenient for them to demand otherwise. Likewise, you pushed Lor’themar to exile me, and my fellows, because it was politically inconvenient for us to remain in Quel’Thalas and question your methods for mitigating the magic addiction. It may not have been a direct death sentence, but you certainly didn’t care whether or not we survived.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I find the events to be distinctly comparable.”

She clearly awaited his response, but Rommath found himself unable to speak. His tongue suddenly turned to rubber, his mouth to dust. He stared, mute, first at her, and then at the table. Even averting his eyes, her face remained etched into his mind, perfectly formed and perfectly hard, without a trace of either sympathy or rancor. Dispassionate, like someone receiving word of a terrible, faraway event that had no effect on their life. In their silence, the rain beat against the window. Rommath realized that the light had faded. It was nearly completely dark outside.

At last, Aurora broke the silence.

“I see,” she said, in a voice simultaneously hard and weary. “And now maybe you do too, finally.”

Rommath did not look up as she passed by the table, leaving the kitchen. He heard her pause at the doorway.

“I am going to bed. Put out the lights before you go up for the night.”

And then she was gone, her footfalls growing quieter as she ascended the stairs. He heard the door to her room open and then shut.

He put his face in his hands.

_ I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you don’t see--or don’t want to see--the parallel _ . Her words echoed as if a whole room full of people were saying them. He wondered how long she had been holding that particular card to her chest. His disdain for the Kirin Tor had been vocal, unrepentant. They had betrayed the blood elves and his righteous fury had burned like the sun itself. The individuals to blame for the betrayal were decades dead and if he ever bothered to visit their graves he would spit on them, to this day.

_ What could they have done to earn your forgiveness? _ Nothing.

_ Nothing _ .

Hands trembling, he stood, steadying himself as best he could with a deep, if shaky, inhale. With a wave of his hand he extinguished the lights, all at once. Plunged into sudden blackness, he groped for the banister to the stairs, and climbed them, woodenly, to bed.


	3. Chapter 3

He did not sleep well. Every time he began to doze off, Aurora’s face or her words flashed through his memory, sending a lance of dread into his stomach. He tossed and turned in Vespara’s narrow, childhood bed, and after an hour or two finally swung his legs over to the floor and sat up.

_ What would it have taken for you to forgive the Kirin Tor? _ He pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets until it hurt. He had no idea how to answer that question.

He stood, pacing. Rain drummed on the roof and the window, heavier than it had been a few hours ago. Rommath’s head ached and he was tired, so tired, but his mind was racing and he already knew he couldn’t sleep. He found himself opening the door and crossing the hall to the top of the stairs. A glance at the door to Aurora’s bedroom showed no light spilling from beneath.

Rommath descended to the first floor of the cottage, wandering aimlessly in the dark, listening to the sounds of wind and rain outside. Suddenly, the realization dawned on him, unfurling like a poisoned bloom: if there was nothing he could do to earn Aurora’s forgiveness, then there was truly no future between the two of them. The thought made his heart twist, panic bubbling up through his chest. He would never see her again. The knowledge was nearly unbearable and he came to a halt, bowing his head.

He had ended up in the back corner of the house, by the writing desk. The notebook remained where it had been that morning, untouched, barely discernible in the gloom. He stared, blinking, then lit the lantern that hovered above the table. He reached out, lifted the black cover, peeling it away from its pages, then--

No.

He let it drop.

_ I’ve already betrayed her enough _ , he thought. But he remained where he was, bleary eyes fixed on the little book, and the thought suddenly occurred to him:  _ I shall write her a letter. _

Immediately, he sat, and carefully placed the notebook on the windowsill, away from temptation. He rummaged around in the drawers of the desk, seeking paper, a pen, and ink.

_ Ink _ .

The edges of an idea began to crystallize in his mind.  _ Ink _ . One of Rommath’s several areas of expertise was in magical inks, made from herbs. Aurora was a skilled herbalist. She had to have what he needed… somewhere. Where? Of course. The cellar.

It was a place Aurora hadn’t bothered to show him on her tour of the house. Just a storage area; why would she? He conjured a small, burning flame in the palm of his hand as he sought the heavy door beneath the staircase. As he descended into the darkness he willed it to grow.

His guess had been correct. Above the jams and pickles stored along the walls, thick bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, their fragrance gently wafting through the musty air. Rommath lit the lamp in the corner and extinguished his own flame, wanting both his hands free. The ink he had in mind was complex and needed multiple components. There was bruiseweed and steelbloom, fadeleaf and dragon’s teeth. And several bunches of sungrass. He also needed quite a bit of mageroyal. And a dish, of course. Clutching his prizes to his chest, he searched around for a mortar and pestle--there they were, tucked into a corner. He dumped the pile of herbs into the heavy mortar, heaved the whole thing into his arms, and climbed back up the stairs.

In the kitchen, he set to work. He laid out the bundles of dried herbs in the order he would need them. There was a cast iron pan he had seen Aurora using--it would serve for the mordant. He found a very sharp knife and set it on the table, that he would need later. It had been several years since he had last made this particular ink, but he remembered the recipe well. He sat down at the table and began to work.

One by one, he ground the dried herbs in the mortar, adding teaspoons of water to improve the texture. He murmured words of power, grinding the pestle first clockwise, then counter, counting the number of passages around the bowl. The sound of stone grating against stone melded with the cadence of the spell, crafting its own magic, time seeming to dilate around him. The steady beat of the rain entranced him further, a metronome against the rhythm of the work.

The last ingredient to add to the pulverized herbs was his own blood, and quite a bit of it. Grasping the knife, he steeled himself and parted the skin of his left forearm, holding his palm upward, avoiding the ulnar artery. He ground his teeth against the pain and counted slowly to twenty while the dark fluid ran into the basin of the mortar. When it was enough he wrapped his arm in a towel and continued to blend the mixture until it was a thick, sticky paste, the coppery scent of his blood layering over the green, grassy herbal fragrance.

At last, he scooped it all into the pan, lit the stove, and added enough water to loosen the paste considerably. He stirred the mixture until it was distributed evenly, then left it to simmer while he properly cleaned his wound and fetched a jar.

Arm tended and wrapped in a new towel, he returned to the stove. The ink smelled terrible--that was a good sign. The color was correct, as was the texture. Success. He allowed himself a small smile. A wave of his hand above the simmering concoction, a few more murmured words, and suddenly the liquid swirled of its own accord, a myriad of shimmering colors rolling along the surface. It was done.

Delicately lifting the pan, Rommath poured the magical ink into the waiting jar. Now for the next phase. He found his boots and cloak in the front room and, pulling them on, stepped into the night, clutching the jar of ink.

Outside the rain still poured steadily from the sky. It was freezing, and the icy water immediately sluiced against his cloak, sticking it to his back. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and studied the front of the house as best he could. Traditionally, protection runes went over thresholds, so that was where he started.

He had no brush, so he used his fingers to paint the ink onto Aurora’s front door. The rune wasn’t complicated, but he made it large, stretching all the way from the lintel to the flagstones of the front step. When he drew the last stroke, it flared briefly, a bright, vivid gold, and disappeared. Its power, however, remained.

He circled the house to the back door, and repeated the process. He did it again on the other two walls of the house--one beneath the main kitchen window, and one on the exterior of the living room’s fireplace. Thus, the four walls were protected, but he still had quite a bit of ink left, and he intended to use every drop.

He painted the rune on the door of the outhouse. He inscribed it onto the the trunks of the apple and pear trees that flanked the front walkway to the house. He put miniature versions of it on the raised beds of Aurora’s vegetable garden out back, and one at the bottom of the stairs leading to the forest trail behind the house. Each iteration of the rune glowed, sun-bright, for just an instant before going dark, leaving no trace except for the tell-tale press of powerful magic, for one who could sense it.

At last, almost nothing remained in the jar. Rommath trudged out in front of the house about thirty yards or so, and poured out the remaining drops of ink into a more generic protective pattern--a circle quartered by a cross. Finished at last, he returned to the house.

In the foyer, as he reached to pull off his boots, exhaustion struck him like a fist. He groaned, and with great effort, stood back up, hand on the small of his back.

_ You’re not as young as you used to be _ , he chided himself. Inscription was a specialty but it was clear he had overreached.

He half-stumbled to the overstuffed wingback chair in the living room, the one Vespara liked, and slid into it. He just needed a moment to rest, then he would dry off and clean up. He still had to wash the pan, the jar, the knife, the mortar and pestle, to wipe down the table… he should redress his wound, and wipe down his boots, and…

His eyes fell shut, and he knew nothing more.


	4. Chapter 4

“...Rommath?”

He thought, vaguely, that his name was being called.

“Rommath, wake up.” The voice was familiar, but he struggled to place it. Vespara? Had she come to visit? He hoped so, it had been too long since he’d last seen her.

“Rommath,” it repeated for the third time, louder, accompanied by a hand shaking his shoulder.

Finally, he pried his eyes open and found himself staring at, not his daughter, but her mother. Aurora. He blinked, registered the confusion in her furrowed brow, realized he was sitting up, in a chair, not asleep in bed, and the entire previous night came roaring back.

He groaned and closed his eyes again, pressing his face into the wing of the chair.

“Why are you down here?” Aurora asked. “What on earth did you get up to last night? The kitchen is a mess.  _ You’re _ a mess. Were you outside? What did you do to your arm? ...Is that my tea towel?”

He grunted. “Give… a moment,” he managed to say. Light, his neck hurt. His back hurt. His arm  _ really _ hurt. He forced himself to open his eyes again, and look at Aurora. “Mmfph.”

She gave him an exasperated look. “Let me see this,” she demanded, picking up his left wrist and pushing back his sleeve. She unwrapped the towel that had served as his bandage. Part of it was stuck to his arm, and there were large splotches of browning blood dried into it. The towel was clearly ruined.

“Sorry,” Rommath managed to mumble. Aurora didn’t answer.

His arm exposed, she gently examined the wound. It was sticky, and messy, the blood only just beginning to clot in the gash left by the knife. Aurora sighed.

“Wait here,” she said, and Rommath had just enough presence of mind to find that funny.  _ Wait here.  _ Did he look like he was going anywhere?

She returned almost immediately with soap, a bowl full of water, and another small towel. Quickly, with expert skill, she cleaned the wound and patted it dry. Before the newly reopened cut had much time to bleed again, she chanted a short canticle and a sphere of golden light enveloped his left arm in quiet warmth. He sighed with relief as the pain evaporated along with the cut, leaving clean, unbroken skin in its place.

He flexed his fingers, curling and stretching them. “Thank you,” he managed to say.

Aurora snorted. “You’re filthy. I’ll draw you a bath. We can talk later about whatever idiot thing it was you decided to do in the middle of the night.”

Rommath planted both his hands on the chair’s armrests and pushed himself upright. It felt like wrenching apart a fence. His joints popped and his muscles ached with stiffness. Slowly, he followed Aurora to the washroom behind the kitchen, where she set to work filling the old, claw-foot tub. He stood and watched her, blearily, half asleep. Eventually, he registered that it was still raining outside.

“I expect you can heat the water on your own,” Aurora said when she had finished drawing the bath. “There’s soap on the shelf. I’ll get you a towel.” She disappeared back through the kitchen and up the stairs.

There was no door to shut for privacy between the kitchen and the washroom. Rommath was frankly too tired to care. It wasn’t as if Aurora hadn’t seen him naked before. He dropped a fireball into the bathwater and stripped, sinking gratefully into the warmth.

As he scrubbed himself down, Aurora returned, eyes carefully averted as she left a folded towel on the stool near the bath. She also brought with her some of the clothing from his bag; a loose tunic and trousers, something to change into when he finished. He opened his mouth to thank her but she was already gone. From where he sat he could hear her milling about in the kitchen, cleaning up the mess he had left.

He wanted nothing more than to luxuriate in the warmth of the bath, but it would be embarrassing to fall asleep like that, and he was tired enough that he feared he might. He forced himself up and out--every muscle screamed in protest. Dressed, he found Aurora had finished in the kitchen and was now vigorously wiping down the overstuffed chair where he had inadvertently passed the night. When she noticed him she stopped what she was doing and stood.

“I can tell that you were up to some kind of magic.” She crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. “Ink making, I’d say, by the mess. What was it?”

Rommath opened his mouth. A myriad of potential replies--all lies--crowded his mind, and just as quickly as they reflexively appeared, they vanished, slipping away from him like fish in a river. He blinked, and, all other options denied him, told the truth.

“My own recipe,” he said. “I… don’t have much of a name for it. Er. It’s a type of blood ink.”

Aurora glanced pointedly at his left arm, the one she had healed. “That explains the cut,” she said. “The jar I found--will it have to be magically cleansed?”

He hadn’t thought of that. “Ah. Yes, but it won’t need anything fancy. Just your basic neutralization spell.”

“Thank the Light for small mercies,” she replied, an edge of sarcasm sharpening her words. “Now,” she continued, “I want to know what you did with your blood ink.”

“I…” he began, and trailed off. He couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come. In the dark half-delirium of the previous night, he’d been convinced that that he had to do it, that if he could never be with her at least he could keep her safe. Now, though, in the gray daylight, confronted by Aurora’s fierce gaze, the realization dawned: he was an idiot. Delusional, irrational and foolish. He watched the expression on Aurora’s face begin to subtly change as the silence between them grew. She was realizing that her question wasn’t going to get an answer.

“Fine. I should have guessed you’d make me do this the hard way,” she snapped, then swept past him and out the front door into the rain, grabbing her cloak off the rack as she went.

Panic suddenly gripped his chest. What would Aurora say when she found out what he had done? She was a powerful priestess; just as she could have dispelled his invisibility spell the previous day, she was capable of revealing the runes he had painted all over her property.  _ Stupid, stupid _ , he thought. He searched for his boots by the door--where had he dropped them? Finding them, he shoved them onto his feet and practically ran outside, following Aurora, pulling his still-wet cloak around his shoulders as he went. He had no idea what he’d do or say, he just…

Standing in the clearing in front of the house, she was already most of the way through the spell of revealing. He stopped, watching her, the way her mouth moved around the words of the chant, the way her hands accompanied the sound. Even in the dull gray of the rainy morning, she was beautiful. He closed the door behind him. The first rune was painted on its front, after all. Resigned now, he waited.

Aurora finished the spell and a golden aura seemed to burst from around her, radiating outward in a circle, the shining margins skittering across the ground. Where the line passed, it left his magic bare. First exposed were the runes he had painted on the trunks of the pear and apple trees, then the one on the front door. As the golden line swept around the house he could imagine the runes on the walls flaring into life as well, and those in the garden, and the one on the trail. They would all be glowing, bright as the noontime sun, his folly illuminated for all to see.

It occurred to him that he was, once again, getting soaked.

Aurora turned slowly in place, brows furrowed, eyes darting toward the runes she could see. Slowly, she approached the pear tree, lifting her fingers toward the place on the trunk where the rune glowed ferociously, beautifully golden. She stopped short of touching it, instead outlining the shape of its power in the air just above it. She frowned and stepped away, then walked to the apple tree and repeated the process.

Finished there, she strode by him without so much as a glance, focused entirely on the enormous rune that blazed on her front door. Time slid by as she inspected it, then abruptly she straightened and walked around the side of the house. Heart in his throat, Rommath followed her.

Long, long minutes he spent, trailing slowly after her, heart sinking into his stomach as she found and examined every single rune he had painted onto her house and her property. The rain steadily soaked into his clothing, rendering his fresh change as cold and useless as the garments he’d left on the floor by the bath. Aurora’s hair was plastered to her cheeks, and as she tramped through the garden, mud crept up the hem of her trousers.

At last Rommath found himself back at the front of the house, watching Aurora staring once again at the rune on her front door. She seemed completely oblivious to his presence until, unexpectedly, she turned her head and looked at him directly.

“I don’t understand you,” she said. He waited for a follow up, for her to elaborate, but nothing was forthcoming.

She waved her hand, and at once all the illuminated runes flared out, their light vanishing. Rommath blinked, the sudden darkness taking him by surprise. He looked up, but Aurora ignored him and returned to the house.

He practically tripped over his own feet chasing after her. Panic swelled in his chest. He had to speak to her, he had to explain… what? Explain what? He’d gone mad in the middle of the night, wrecked her stash of herbs, made a mess of her kitchen, and painted runes all over her property. He was insane.

Inside, in the foyer, she stood, arms folded against her chest, staring softly into the middle distance, lost in thought. Her cloak was draped over the banister at the bottom of the stairs and he could see where it had failed to keep her dry: at the ends of her sleeves and the hems of her trousers. The wet cloth clung awkwardly to her wrists as she absently pushed locks of sopping hair from her face, darkened from gold to brown by the rain. The noise of him shutting the door started her out of her reverie and she looked over, catching his eye.

Rommath thought his heart might burst from his chest.

_ You are so beautiful _ , he wanted to cry aloud, but his throat wouldn’t open to make the sounds. They stood in silence facing each other, dripping rainwater onto the stone floor. At length, Aurora sighed heavily, and looked away. His chest ached so much it hurt to breathe.

_ I don’t understand you _ .

He wanted to shout,  _ What is there to understand? _

“I’m going to change out of these clothes,” Aurora said.

Rommath didn’t have any more changes of clean clothing, so he hung up his cloak, kicked off his muddy shoes, and collapsed onto the sofa in front of the fire. He eased his head back against the cushions, his neck stiff and sore. His whole body ached. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so exhausted.

He heard Aurora’s footsteps on the stairs and tilted his head toward the sound. It was difficult to focus, and he struggled to open his eyes. He thought he heard her say something, but she sounded so far away. His chest hurt when he drew his breath.

“Aurora,” he mumbled. He was so tired. It was hard to speak. He tried again. “Aurora...” he trailed off, and was fast asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

When Rommath awoke he found himself slumped over on Aurora’s sofa, awkwardly draped across several pillows, and covered with a blanket he was certain hadn’t been there when he had sat down. He stretched and groaned, flexing his fingers and toes. He knew he would feel better if he moved around, even if it was the very last thing on earth he wanted to do, so he made himself stand and reach toward the ceiling, then lift his knees to his chest, one by one.

“Welcome back to the world of the living,” Aurora said, from behind him. Slowly, he turned to face her.

“Tea?” she asked. He nodded immediately. Tea sounded wonderful.

She retreated to the kitchen and set the kettle on the stovetop. All signs of his midnight ink making activities were gone. The cast iron pan gleamed dully from a shelf, the mortar and pestle were doubtless returned to their place in the cellar, and all the stray bits of herbs or drops of blood had been wiped away. A pang of guilt wormed its way into his chest that she had been forced to pick up after him.

He eased himself onto the bench at the kitchen table. Light, he hurt. As the kettle heated, Aurora worked over a different pot on the stovetop. When she returned to the table she set a large bowl of oat porridge in front of him. At the sight of it, Rommath’s stomach roared with hunger.

“There’s honey,” Aurora told him, pointing to a jar on the table, “and some walnuts, and blackberries, and cream.”

Rommath heaped all of them onto the porridge, and began to eat enthusiastically. He barely even noticed the kettle whistling, until Aurora set their mugs on the table, and took her seat across from him.

She was silent as he ate, warming her hands on the steaming cup of tea. He knew she had something to say, and was waiting for him to finish. He wasn’t exactly anxious, but neither was he eager to have the conversation that he knew awaited him.

When his bowl was empty, Aurora spoke.

“Why?” she asked.

He couldn’t resist the urge to be petulant. “Why what?”

Aurora’s eyes flashed, and she swept her arm to the side. “All of it. Start at the beginning. Why are you such an asshole?”

Rommath bristled.

“If it makes me an asshole to care about your safety--”

“Don’t even start,” she cut him off. “I’ve lived here for decades. Renthar and his allies aren’t thrilled with it, but they aren’t a threat to me, and you know it. No, this is about something else. Something that you seem to think was worth plundering my herb stash, destroying my kitchen, and traipsing over half the wood in the middle of the night during a rainstorm, not to mention adding enchantments to my home without my permission. You’re a terrible houseguest, did you know that?”

Her words stung. They stung rather more--rather  _ well _ more--than Rommath wanted to admit. They stung in particular because they were right.

_ Why are you always right? _ he thought.

“I can remove the runes, if you wish,” he said, stiffly.

She sighed.

“That would take forever, and you’d need more of my herbs to do it.” She paused and, to his surprise, her composure slipped, revealing naked frustration. “What in the Light’s name were you thinking? Blood runes? In the middle of the night? In the rain? Sun and stars, Rommath.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. There was no way he could answer her question. It simply was not possible. Instead he sat there, mute as a fish, and watched as her expression slowly morphed from frustration, to scowling annoyance, to resignation.

She pushed back from the table and stood.

“I don't know why I bother,” she said, quietly. Then, louder, “I am going for a walk. Try not to destroy anything in my absence.”

She swept out of the kitchen. Rommath could hear her behind him in the foyer, putting on her shoes, shaking out her cloak. He dug his fingers into the wooden tabletop, throat and chest strangely tight.

_ What in Light’s name were you thinking? _ How, how could he ever explain? What would she even say, if he could?

The front door opened and closed, and the sound hit him like a gong, sending him shooting up out of his seat, stumbling toward the foyer. No, no, this was all wrong. All of it was wrong. He couldn’t let Aurora go out thinking this way. Even if there were no words… no. He had to try.

Try what?

He didn’t know, really, what he meant to do as he frantically searched for his cloak, pulled on his shoes, and barrelled out the door after Aurora. All he did know was that he couldn’t, he mustn’t, let it go on like this. Whatever this was.

Outside the rain had lightened to a fine drizzle. He whirled in place, left then right, trying to gauge the direction that Aurora had taken. The trail that led to the front of the house went toward Quel’Danil--he was certain she wouldn’t have gone that way. He jogged around toward the back, to the trail the two of them had walked down on the evening he’d arrived. A turn right led gently downhill, toward the river. Left led uphill, further into the mountains. Rommath turned left.

He strode up the path, stretching his long legs as far as they would go, trying to ignore the soreness that ached with every step. He was desperate to catch up to her… assuming this was, in fact, the way she had gone. He thought his reasoning was sound, but he could be wrong. There had to be a thousand different paths through these woods, and Aurora would know them all, of course. He resolved that if he didn’t find her in the next ten minutes, he would return to the cottage and wait.

He found her just around the next bend.

If she had heard him coming up the path, she gave no indication. She continued to walk up the hill, her back to him. In the dim, misty woods, her gray cloak made her seem almost to float, like a dryad, or a ghost.

“Aurora,” he called.

She paused, and turned around. With her hood up to guard against the rain, he couldn’t make out her face at all. He hurried toward her, slowing as he approached. When he could, at last, see her face, it was carefully guarded, blank as a slate.

It was now, or never.

“I…” he began. He swallowed. “I wanted to leave you something.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The runes,” he said.

“ _ Why _ did you want to leave me runes?” she replied. “What on earth could I possibly need them for?”

Rommath steeled himself.

“If I am never to see you again, I wanted to ensure your safety.” Aurora started to open her mouth, but he continued, and spoke over her. “I understand it’s unnecessary. I was… not thinking clearly, last night.”

There was silence between them, broken only by the steady dripping of the collecting mist from the trees above.

“Does this mean you intend to leave for good?” Aurora asked, after a time. Her voice, to Rommath’s ears, sounded carefully neutral.

“Is that not what you want?” he replied.

She did not answer, not for a long while, and then she sighed, heavily, resignation written into every line of her posture. She pushed the hood back from her head and looked further up the path.

“Let’s walk for awhile,” she said, and started off, without waiting for a response. Despite his soreness, Rommath easily fell into pace beside her shorter stride.

Neither of them said anything for what seemed like ages to Rommath. Each footfall on the needle-strewn path crunched with disproportionate volume, cracking like a firework. As they ascended the trail, the trees grew denser, their branches intertwining overhead and blocking the already-dim light.

“Why do you assume I never want to see you again?” Aurora asked him, suddenly.

“Perhaps because you have, in the past, told me exactly as much,” he snapped. He stopped suddenly, temper flaring. “What am I supposed to think? Decades ago you spent one year living at my home, then left, clearly instructing me not to contact you, not at all. Thirty-five years after the fact I get a letter, and then the daughter I didn’t even know I had showed up on my doorstep!”

It occurred to him that he was, in fact, very, very angry.

“You say you don’t understand me,” he quoted, working hard not to yell. “I don’t understand  _ you _ ! What do you  _ want _ from me, Aurora? What do you want?”

She too had stopped walking, and she wasn’t looking at him. Her face unreadable, she stared off into the forest. Her hair was beginning to frizz in the humidity. Rommath wondered, half-despairing, half-infuriated, if she’d even heard him.

He saw her close her eyes.

“That’s easy,” she said. “I want to be free.”

Her answer surprised him, and he didn’t know how to respond, so he said nothing. After a moment, she glanced over at him, and noting his silence, smiled.

“The irony of course being that every choice I’ve made since the war has cost me that.” She looked up into the boughs of the trees above them, so thickly overhanging that they blocked much of the light rain. “I can’t return to Quel’Thalas thanks to my defiance of you and I can’t live in Quel’Danil thanks to my relationship with you. My daughter realized your world holds far more of a future than mine, and she’s gone where I cannot follow. I have alienated all of my people. So now what I have is this wood, and the cottage, and all the time in the world to split logs and pickle cabbages and train the children of those who despise me in the ways of the Light until I inevitably go mad. The gods are cruel, eh?”

_ The gods are dead _ , he thought, reflexively, but he held his tongue. Aurora had never been one to indulge in self-pity, but the depth of bitter sorrow in her voice shook him to his bones. She turned once more toward the uphill trail and began to walk again, slowly.

_ I can’t return to Quel’Thalas thanks to my defiance of you. _

_ I can’t live in Quel’Danil thanks to my relationship with you. _

And Vespara… Vespara had gleaned a taste of what it meant to be the Grand Magister’s daughter in sin’dorei Quel’Thalas versus what that meant in a quel’dorei ranger holdout. She had never looked back.

Blinking, Rommath hurried after Aurora. She had disappeared around a switchback up the trail. On the other side of the turn, he discovered the track ended a few meters ahead in an overlook. Aurora stood with one hand resting on the low stone wall staring down into the valley below.

“This was a lookout point, once,” she said as he approached. “The rangers haven’t bothered with it in ages, but the view is nice.”

He drew even with her and peered down into the narrow valley below. The deciduous trees that crowded down the rocky slopes were mostly bare of leaves, but here and there a few still clung to branches in vibrant patches of red or gold. Intermixed were the somber pine and spruce, needles dark in the wan autumn light. Far below, thin stripes of fog floated above the river that wound between the peaks, water slate gray in the rain.

“Every time I come here I’m reminded of how the world has changed,” Aurora said. She pointed to the mountains that rose across from them on the west side of the valley. “That was once Alterac, though it’s been uninhabited for the better part of a hundred years.” She turned slightly and pointed to the north. “Up that direction are the remnants of Andorhal. And if you go the other way…” she pointed toward the south, “...you’ll find what’s left of Hillsbrad. All of old Lordaeron is basically feral, now.” She shook her head. “I think back to when I was young. I never would have guessed this is what awaited, in the future.”

Rommath stood next to her in silence, his heart heavy. Theirs was always the story of loss.

“Do you wish it had been different?” he asked. She did not hesitate a moment.

“Yes. Always. Every day.” She inhaled. “Every day I wish it were different.” There was a pause, and she looked over. “Do you?”

He struggled with himself for a moment before he replied, quietly, with the truth.

“Yes,” he said. He couldn’t prevent his voice from thickening as his throat constricted. “I also wish it were different. Every day.”

“Oh,” was all she said.

He couldn’t meet her eyes so he looked to his hands, curling his fingers against the cold stone of the wall. The surprise in her voice was unmistakable and it hurt, Light, it  _ hurt _ , more than he could ever possibly articulate, that she found this surprising.  _ They all think me a monster _ , he thought, though he knew his reputation was his own fault. He had fueled it, embraced it, reveled in it, even. It was safer to be hated than to be vulnerable. But there was a cost, of course. There was a cost to everything. And the older he got, the more unbearable that cost became.

“Do you really think I don’t regret it at all, Aurora?” he asked. “Do you think I haven’t wished, every day, that…” his voice wavered and he snapped his mouth shut, terrified.

“A man who regrets seeks forgiveness,” she said, softly. “And you never have.”

She turned and, pulling her cloak more tightly around her, started back down the path. For a moment, Rommath was too stunned to speak or move. Then rage bloomed, red and burning, in his chest.

“Forgiveness?” he shouted after her. “ _ Forgiveness _ ! How… how can you possibly…?” he trailed off, sputtering with inarticulate fury. “After  _ everything _ . After all that’s happened…!” He spread his arms as if addressing the wood itself. “ _ I  _ brought the magic siphoning!  _ I _ forced Lor’themar to banish you and Hawkspear!  _ I _ taught Liadrin how to steal the naaru’s magic and founded the Blood Knights!  _ I _ authorized the use of mind control magic on the dissenters of Quel’Thalas! I--” he choked.

_ I am beyond forgiveness. _

He gasped, a ragged, gulping breath. The air scraped his throat as he inhaled; his eyes burned.

“...You think  _ asking forgiveness _ means  _ anything _ ? Is worth  _ anything _ ?”

His voice hung in the air for a moment and then the forest swallowed the sound, leaving only oppressive silence in the humid air around them.

“The Light welcomes all who come in good faith,” Aurora said, very quietly.

“The Light…” he began, then his voice failed and a crushing wave of emotion instead left him breathless. He gritted his teeth and pressed his fist against his mouth, struggling for control. The ground beneath him seemed to lurch suddenly and his legs folded, knees bruising where they hit the dirt. He pitched forward, repressing the urge to vomit as he clamped one hand over his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut, gulping for air like a fish.

Through this he was dimly aware of Aurora standing quietly, unmoving, impassively watching him try not to retch in the middle of the trail. He’d known humiliation before and known it well, but he was crumpled before her and it was unbearable. She already thought little enough of him. Did she have to see this, too?

Eventually, his stomach began to settle and the earth seemed to steady itself again. He swallowed, the bile burning its way back down his throat as he sat on his haunches. Looking at her was out of the question and he covered his eyes with his hand, sagging until he was nearly hugging his knees like a child.

A slight pressure on the crown of his head startled him, then he realized that it was Aurora’s hand. Warmth seeped into his scalp from her fingers as she stroked his hair, and he couldn’t repress a full-body shudder at the gentle, almost blissful sensation. The only other time on this visit that she had touched him was when she had shaken him awake that morning.

“Oh, Rommath,” she said softly. “Why did you want to come to see me?”

_ Because I love you _ .

“Why did you offer to host me?” he countered.

She withdrew her hand. Immediately Rommath ached for her touch, and berated himself for opening his stupid mouth. Why did he always do this?

“Because I keep hoping things could be different,” she said, at last. He looked up, startled. She had moved away from him again and stood with her hands folded against the skirt of her tunic, standing very straight. When he caught her eye, she smiled a little, sadly.

“Long years alone will make you foolish, I’ve learned,” she said. “I have no future among the blood elves, and I have no future among the high elves. I catch myself thinking that I might find a future with you. But you are a blood elf, of course, so I should know better.”

She turned to walk away, back down the path, and as she did she called over her shoulder, “Maybe I should change my ways. Renounce the Light. Do you think Alleria would be willing to count me among her void elves?”

She laughed as she disappeared around the bend, but there was obvious strain in it; an act put on by someone who wanted their mood to be perceived as lighter than it was. Aurora was a bad liar.  _ Unlike me _ , he thought, and took no pride in his skill. After so many years, he knew the cost of his bad habits. He steepled his fingers over his nose and mouth.

_ I catch myself thinking that I might find a future with you _ .

Never, not in a thousand years, would he ever have expected that admission from her. He had assumed… what had he assumed? That she loathed him? That made no sense. Why would she even speak to him, were that the case? Why would she have borne his child? She was an herbalist. She could have rid herself of the pregnancy, if she’d wanted. He massaged his forehead.

_ A man who regrets seeks forgiveness. _

Shakily, he rose to his feet. The episode had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit. His legs felt like rubber, but he put one foot in front of the other and after a few moments, he was feeling marginally better. Aurora was long gone; back to the house he assumed. He retraced their steps down the footpath, silently rehearsing the things he wished to say to her.

The trail wound back down the mountainside and along Aurora’s back garden. He climbed the old wooden stairs between the raised beds, his palms growing clammy with nerves. It wasn’t truly in his nature to do what he intended, but he understood instinctively that it was his only hope of moving forward.  _ I catch myself thinking that I might find a future with you. _ If he could not offer a future she considered worth pursuing, then whatever thread there was that precariously held them together would eventually unravel forever.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the back door.

“Aurora,” he called, “Aurora. I…” He hesitated, his throat constricting. This didn’t come to him easily. “...It doesn’t have to be like this.” He paused, listening for some kind of response. There was none.

... _ What is “like this” anyway? _

Mentally shoving his doubts aside, he ploughed on, making his way toward the kitchen.

“I want a future with you, too, Aurora!” he said, louder than he meant to. “I miss you. I want you to come back to Inthicar with me, to stay. I want you to be safe, to be protected. I…” he turned the corner through the kitchen, and there she was, standing in the front room. He took a deep breath.

“Aurora, I l—“

And he froze, stricken.

A tall, lithe, brown-skinned, middle-aged woman dressed in the ranger garb of Quel’Danil Lodge gazed back at him with bright, bemused hazel eyes, the color of which he could see because, like Aurora’s, they did not glow.

“Doral ana’diel, Rommath?” Jalinde asked.

“Ranger Lord Summerdrake,” he answered, stiffly formal. He could not, he dared not, entertain the idea of what she had heard him saying.

“I take it you were expecting to find Aurora around that corner,” Jalinde said. Without waiting for a response she continued, “She’s upstairs, if you were wondering. She let me in and went to change.”

“I see.”

Jalinde gave him a long, appraising look.

“I assume there’s been an argument,” she said.

“A brazen assumption,” Rommath snapped at her. She half-smiled.

“I know a desperate, if half-assed, apology when I hear one,” she replied. “Even when it’s cut off part-way through.”

Rommath made his face be stone, though inside he was seething.

“Heard a lot of them, I imagine,” he said.

“Mmm. Usually from junior rangers who’ve been caught away from their posts with a dick in their mouth.” She flicked her eyes up and down, disdainfully sizing him up. “Unusual for a Grand Magister to be caught sucking his own.”

Rommath resisted the urge to set her hair on fire.

“You’ve a high estimation of my flexibility.”

“I did just get an earful of you bending over backward to avoid taking any kind of responsibility for your argument with Aurora.” She crossed her arms. “I don’t need to know the content—though I’d wager I can well guess—to have noticed your complete self-centeredness in response. ‘I want a future with you, Aurora,’” she quoted. “‘I want you to come back to Inthicar with me. I want you to be protected.’” Jalinde raised her eyebrows. “What do you think  _ she  _ wants?”

Instantly Rommath saw her in his mind’s eye, less than an hour ago, standing before him in the rain.

_ I want to be free _ .

Something of his thoughts must have, despite his best efforts, shown through on his face because Jalinde’s own expression noticeably softened.

Before either of them could say anything more the sound of Aurora’s bedroom door shutting upstairs interrupted them. Rommath looked up, searching for her to appear at the top of the stairs, throat closing with sudden emotion. Then she was there, in a dry outfit, yellow hair freshly twisted up and piled on top of her head. And suddenly it hurt, it  _ hurt _ , so much more even than usual, to see her and to be unable to touch her, to smell her, to feel her in his arms. It physically took his breath away, the crushing weight in his chest, the inexhaustible well of sorrow. He closed his eyes and turned his face away.

“Ah, Rommath,” she said, and he had to work hard not to flinch at the sound of her voice saying his name. “I didn’t hear you come in. Jalinde was at the door when I got home. I see you’ve met.”

“Oh yes,” Jalinde immediately replied. “We have indeed.”

Rommath said nothing.

“I have your things in the cellar, Jalinde,” Aurora went on, oblivious to his silence. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

She swept past him on her way through the kitchen and downstairs, and as she passed it was as if she took the air with her. Rommath felt lightheaded, achy, not entirely steady on his feet. He told himself to breathe, to silently count to ten, to do anything to maintain his composure and what little sense of control he could yet claim.

Jalinde seemed to be contemplating him. He did not like the thoughtful look on her face, did not like the feeling of being evaluated.

“You know,” she said, denying him the refuge of silence, “once when Vespara was little—I don’t even think she could really walk yet—Aurora and I were sitting in the back, watching her play in the garden. By then it was clear that she would grow up to look exactly like you, which we knew was going to make both of their lives difficult. So I asked her what I’d been wondering ever since she came home pregnant, which was: why? We’re not like the humans, we know when we are fertile. She couldn’t have been ignorant of what was likely to happen, or of how it would affect her to live here and be the mother of your child. And she said something to me that I’ve never forgotten. She said, ‘I couldn’t stay with him, but I didn’t want to leave. So I wanted something I could keep.’

“And I thought it strange,” Jalinde continued, “because she could have taken a token of some sort, you know? A pocket watch, or a handkerchief, or anything really, but a  _ child _ ? How extreme. I didn’t press it at the time, but I realized at some point: it wasn’t a  _ reminder  _ of you that she wanted, it was you, yourself. And she figured she couldn’t have that, for whatever reason. So your child was the next best thing.” Jalinde shrugged. “At least, that’s the only interpretation that’s ever made a shred of sense to me.

“I think she does love you,” she continued, softly, “or she wants to love you. But how can she? You’re the source of all her suffering. An unenviable position. I wish she didn’t care for you at all, it would be simpler that way. But she knows that.” Jalinde shook her head. “If you can somehow find your way through all that, you both might get what you want, in the end.”

Aurora returned before Rommath could reply, her arms full of little paper packets, jars, and small ceramic pots.

“Here are the things you ordered, Jalinde,” she said. “The brown packets are teas, the white are medicines. I’ve labeled them so you know what they are. Healing salves are in the glass jars, the pots are everything else.” She pulled a folded letter from her pocket. “Here’s a list of the full inventory.”

Jalinde opened the list and quickly scanned it over. “Many thanks, Aurora. I’m sure your work is flawless, as usual. Here’s what you’re owed.”

She handed Aurora a pouch that jingled with the familiar sound of clinking coins. Aurora pocketed it without counting. Rommath imagined they had been doing business for a long time indeed.

“Take care, Aurora,” Jalinde said as she loaded the things she had bought into a bag. “Shall I come by later this week for tea?”

“That would be lovely,” Aurora answered, without hesitation, smiling broadly. At the exchange, Rommath remembered the intimate moment between them that he had witnessed the day before, and a violent surge of envy pulsed in his veins. When he’d sent the letter to Aurora requesting her permission to come see her, she had taken nearly a month to respond.

“Farewell,” Jalinde said, nodding to each of them in turn. “May the light of the sun guide you both.”

She shut the door behind her and was gone.

“I suppose it’s about dinner time,” Aurora said. Without waiting for a response, she turned and went into the kitchen.

Rommath stood in the foyer a while before he followed her, turning Jalinde’s words over in his head. He looked up toward the ceiling, to the stout wooden beams that supported the second floor. His entire chest felt hollow, like his body was a dried-up husk left over from the harvest, all set to blow away in the autumn wind.

In the kitchen, Aurora was back at the counter, busily slicing up squash. Rommath leaned in the doorway.

“I need to leave, Aurora,” he said. She paused, and turned around to face him.

“I see,” she replied.

“All we’ve done since I arrived is argue and bicker,” he said. “Not the trip either of us hoped for, I’d wager. I see no point in drawing it out any further.”

She frowned, brow furrowing, and lowered her gaze.

“No,” she said at last. “Not the visit I’d hoped for.”

“What did you hope for?” he asked.

“What did you?” she countered.

He opened his mouth to retort, then hesitated, Jalinde’s admonishment still fresh in his memory. With Aurora, his usual instincts never worked in his favor.

“Something more pleasant,” he answered, after a moment. “Time spent with a… with a friend.”

Aurora blinked, looking surprised, then frowned again.

“With a friend,” she repeated. “Are we friends, Rommath?”

He shook his head.

“I don’t know.”

Aurora clasped and unclasped her hands, still frowning. Something was on her mind, and Rommath was half curious, half dreadful of what it could be.

“Do you want us to be friends?” she asked at last. 

“No,” he answered. He saw her eyes flicker as he spoke, and forced himself to continue. “I want more than that.”

At that, Aurora looked up again. “I see.”

Rommath sighed.

“I don’t think that should be surprising,” he said. Aurora shook her head.

“It’s not,” she answered.

They stood in awkward silence, each lost in their own thoughts, for what seemed like ages. Rommath steeled himself for the words he had long owed her.

“I love you, Aurora,” he said. It was a relief to say it, at last. “I’ve loved you… years. Decades. Since… I can’t even say. I don’t remember anymore.”

She bowed her head. It occurred to him that perhaps it was, for her, also a relief to hear it, at last.

“I know you’d like to hear me say that I feel the same way,” she started, speaking slowly. “I cannot. I wish that I could, if that’s any comfort. I do…” she shut her mouth and inhaled sharply through her nose, eyes closing. “I do wish that I could,” she finished, in nearly a whisper.

Rommath had expected that it would hurt more than it did to hear this. It did hurt, but it was like a dull ache, an old sore spot, more than the devastating heartbreak one might have anticipated. He realized that, like his earlier admission, this did not come as a surprise. He had always known that this was how she felt. Why else did she keep fleeing and returning, and fleeing again?

Without meaning to he had approached her while he thought, desiring her closeness even now. Realizing this he stopped himself, about halfway across the kitchen, next to the table, and frowned.

“I understand,” he said, softly.

“Do you?” she asked. A reasonable question.

He laughed a little, failing to keep the bitterness out of it. It was more at himself than anything, he hoped she knew.

“You said it yourself just the other night, Aurora. How I could never forgive the Kirin Tor for their betrayal, and you were right. I can see no way through that wound. If you see no way through the one I inflicted upon you…” Here he choked up. He should have anticipated it. He swallowed, and soldiered on. “...Then I can hardly fail to acknowledge that I know what it’s like.”

She bowed her head again, and when she looked up her eyes, to his surprise, glistened with tears.

“Some things can’t be fixed,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

His own throat closed when he heard her speak, and he nodded, not trusting himself to respond. It was true. There were things that could not be fixed. Things he had suffered and things he had committed. It was what it was. For the first time, it seemed, he could acknowledge it with neither rage nor defensiveness.

“I am sorry, Aurora,” he managed to say when he could find his voice again. He closed his eyes. It had been a long time coming. “I am sorry every day.”

The tears she had so far managed to stymie slipped down her cheeks, leaving dark streaks on her pale skin. She nodded, wordless, and looked toward the ceiling, inhaling a ragged breath.

“I know,” she said, voice pitching abnormally high. “Thank you for saying it.”

He forced himself to speak what he immediately thought. “It shouldn’t have taken me this long.”

To his surprise, she laughed. Just a little, but it was a genuine laugh. Her smile pierced him like sunlight through heavy clouds.

“No,” she replied, wiping her eyes with her knuckles, “it shouldn’t have. But… it’s something. I appreciate it.”

The urge to go to her, to hold her and comfort her, was so strong that Rommath had to curl his toes inside his boots to keep himself in one place. Eventually she took a deep breath and shuddered, as if shaking off the mood, and smiled. It was a small, watery smile belied by her red, puffy eyes and it sliced him straight to the bone.

“Let’s eat,” she said. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”

“Famished,” he replied, without hesitation.

They ate in not-entirely-comfortable, not-entirely-awkward silence, broken only when one of them would ask for an object to be passed. The wan light outside steadily dimmed, until Aurora lit the enchanted lanterns with a wave of her hand. Their warm, golden light washed over them both, strangely comforting to Rommath.

After the meal he helped her clean up, carrying the plates to the sink, stacking the dishes neatly after she had washed them. It felt good to be tangibly useful to her, even in such a small manner.

When they were done he excused himself, heading upstairs. He wanted, strongly, to be alone. Sitting on Vespara’s childhood bed in his pyjamas, the room illuminated only by the soft, steady light of the lantern that hovered above the dresser, he let his face fall into his hands. He felt emptied out, hollowed like a wooden bowl, waiting in vain to be filled.

Extinguishing the lantern, he fell backward onto the pillows and closed his eyes. He needed to rest. These few days had been exhausting, filled with difficult magic and difficult conversations. He rolled onto his side and tried to relax.

Sleep did not come. He did the proverbial tossing and turning, to no avail. It didn’t seem to matter how tired he was--Light, he was so tired--his body and mind had conspired not to rest. Capitulating with a sigh, he sat up and stared into the darkened room. What to do with himself through the night? He recalled that, last he had seen, the book of poetry he had given Aurora was still downstairs on the coffee table. If there it remained, he could read himself to sleep. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed and stood.

On the landing he was careful to be quiet, not wanting to disturb Aurora. He groped for the banister, at last seizing it, and made his way downstairs. As he approached the ground floor, it got strangely brighter, and, blinking with surprise, he realized that a low fire burned in the living room hearth. Aurora sat on the sofa clad in her dressing gown, her unbound hair cascading down her back, and the book of poetry open on her lap.

“I see I wasn’t alone in my difficulty sleeping,” he said, making for the overstuffed chair.

Aurora looked up at him and smiled. “I see I wasn’t, either,” she replied. “Oh, don’t sit there--come sit with me, here, on the couch.”

Her invitation surprised and pleased him, and he moved to sit beside her, keeping what he hoped was a polite distance between them.

“It’s actually too hard to read this by firelight alone,” Aurora said, shutting the book and replacing it on the table. “I haven’t gotten very far.”

“We can put on the lanterns, if you like,” he suggested, and found himself relieved when she shook her head no.

“It spoils the atmosphere,” she explained. “There’s something nice about sitting in front of the fire late at night. Can you hear it? The rain’s started up again.”

Now that she pointed it out, he could indeed. The droplets tapped their steady, staccato rhythm against the roof. She was right, it was better like this, without the lanterns, in the dim, flickering light and steady warmth of the fire, the rain softly beating against the window. He leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes. Maybe the combination of the hearth and the rain would lull him to sleep, at last.

“If you prefer to lie down, you can,” Aurora said softly, startling him. He opened his eyes and looked over, blinking.

“There’s not enough room,” he replied, puzzled.

“You can…” she trailed off and cleared her throat. “You can put your head in my lap, if you want.”

Her face was mostly masked by the inconsistent firelight, but he could hear the bashfulness in her voice.

“I… what?” he managed to say. He was shocked, if he was honest. He was almost unsure he’d heard her right.

She looked down, lowering her eyes.

“I’ll move if you prefer, I can sit in the chair,” she said. “I just thought… I’d ask.”

“No, stay,” he replied immediately, heart racing a little in his chest. “I just… you surprised me.”

She laughed a little. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

Silence.

Rommath studied her face as well as he could, and she glanced over at him, once, her blue eyes bright in the dark room, holding his gaze for a few moments before she again looked away. He did want to lie down. And, Light, he wanted to touch her.

Slowly, not wanting to startle her, half afraid she’d suddenly change her mind, he laid himself on his side, facing the fireplace, and let his head rest on her thighs. He closed his eyes, tried to relax, but his heart hammered against his ribs, seemingly deafeningly loud in the quiet room.

When her fingers touched his head, he nearly jumped. When she began to stroke his hair, as she had briefly earlier that afternoon, he couldn’t suppress a full-body shudder, and a quiet gasp.

In silence, she gently massaged his scalp, working in small circles down to the back of his neck. She combed her fingers through his long, coarse hair, gently pulling out the tangles and draping the black strands across her legs, one lock at a time. She almost certainly meant it to be comforting, to be relaxing, but it was maddening, each tender brush of her fingertips like a jolt of electricity through him. He wanted her hands to touch more than they were. He wanted them to slide under his shirt, to peel off his clothing, to press against his naked skin.

“I used to do this for Vespara,” Aurora said, continuing to run her fingers through his hair. “Until she got older, and didn’t want me to anymore.” She paused a moment before continuing. “She has your same hair. Everything about her reminds me of you.”

“Everything about her reminds  _ me  _ of  _ you _ ,” he replied.

Her hands stopped working for a moment, though her fingers remained resting lightly on his scalp. He could practically hear her frown.

“That seems odd to me,” she said. “She looks exactly like you.”

“But she  _ acts  _ exactly like you,” he replied.

Aurora was silent in response, but returned to stroking his hair. She was gently twisting the strands around her fingers, and he was finally starting to relax into her touch, to savor it, to let it soothe him to sleep, perhaps.

“I suppose it’s hard for me to see that kind of similarity,” she said eventually, his comment on Vespara still clearly on her mind.

“It’s the way she speaks,” he replied. “The patterns of her voice, the expressions she uses. They sound just like you.”

Aurora didn’t answer and he continued.

“The way she moves her hands when she talks. The way she folds them against her skirt. The way she tilts her head when she laughs. The way she frowns, the way she tries not to swear when she’s upset.” Naming the myriad of ways in which his daughter resembled her mother, Rommath found himself smiling, memories of Vespara doing every one of the things he described crystallizing in his mind.

“...The way she squints when she’s concentrating. The way she pins her hair up when she’s annoyed with it. The way she prays to the Light…”

At that, his smile faded, his throat closed, as a wellspring of emotion he hadn’t anticipated rose from his chest and silenced him, threatening to overflow. He closed his eyes, in his head the bright, searing memory of his daughter kneeling, bowing her head before Liadrin as she took her vows among the Blood Knights. A momentous, sober ceremony that Aurora had been unable to attend. Had been unallowed to attend, in fact, robbed of this moment in their daughter’s life as he had been robbed of her childhood.

He cleared his throat.

“I understand why everybody says Vespara is so like me,” he said. “But I see so much of you in her, nonetheless.”

“I see,” she replied.

Her lack of response surprised him and he shifted, turning onto his back as best he could and craning his head, trying to see her face. She smiled wanly down at him, eyes bright in the dim firelight.

“Did you doubt it?” he asked.

She didn’t answer immediately. She did reach across his face with her hand and laid it against his cheek, the tips of her fingers sliding just behind his ear, her palm curving along his jawline. It sent his heart straight into his mouth.

“After she was born,” Aurora started, “it didn’t take very long for it to become clear that she would be your double. She had your hair, your eyes, your nose, your skin, your face.” When she spoke she ran her thumb along his cheek, and he shivered. “I knew I would lose her. It was just a matter of time. That’s… that’s the reason why I never contacted you after she was born, to let you know you had a daughter. I didn’t tell you that I was pregnant because I just… I couldn’t, I needed to be alone. I promised myself I’d write you when she was born, but those first few months were so hard and I didn’t, then I saw what she was growing to be and I realized… as soon as she saw you, she would never want to come back. She would look at you and see herself. She would see Inthicar, and Silvermoon, and Quel’Thalas, and she would be gone. I couldn’t bear it. I kept her here.

“It was wrong of me but I was right about her,” Aurora continued. “She is gone. And I miss her every day, but it’s… it’s as it should be. She has no future here. In Quel’Thalas, she is an heiress, she is the Grand Magister’s daughter, she is a Blood Knight, a protege of Liadrin, a defender of her homeland. Here she is the subject of whispers and gossip, something they try to shame me over, and she knows it.”

Aurora took a deep, shuddering breath.

“I should have taken her to you earlier,” she said, quietly. “I should have let her live in Quel’Thalas, where she would have grown up adored and respected, where she could have lived at Inthicar manor and Sunfury Spire rather than this hovel in the woods.”

Rommath felt something splash onto his forehead and realized that Aurora was crying, really crying, tears streaming down the sides of her face. He sat up, faced her, unsure of what to say, if anything.

“I’m sorry I kept her from you. I’m sorry to you both for that. I was selfish. I knew she’d never want to come back with me if I took her to you, so I kept her here as long as I could. It was the wrong choice. It was a choice I made for myself, and not for her.”

Aurora pressed her fist against her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut, trying desperately to control her breathing, repressing a sob. When she had regained her composure, she spoke again.

“I didn’t mean for all this to come out like that…” she said. She laughed a little, an unexpectedly hard laugh. “As you can see, I’m a mess.”

Now it was Rommath’s turn to reach out and run his fingers through her hair, blonde ringlets that waved and curled as they spilled down her back. He was more than a little shocked at her confession.

“Why did you assume you’d lose her at Inthicar?” he asked. “You would have been welcome to stay, or to visit as often as you liked, even if she didn’t want to come back here.”

“Oh, Rommath, you don’t understand, do you?” her voice ached with anguish and sorrow. Unexpectedly, she lifted her hand to his face again. “When I look at you, I… Light, you make my heart race. You make my knees feel like water. When you touch me, it’s as if my skin is alight. My head spins, I can’t think straight. It’s like being a girl again. And then…” she withdrew her hand, “...and then I remember.

“I remember the sound of your voice when you argued for our exile. I remember the things you said.”

She stopped.

“I remember the way you looked at us back then, Rommath. No one has ever looked at me with such naked hatred.”

They were silent together for what seemed like a long time. Rommath supposed he should have been upset, or hurt, or angry—sick of hearing this again and again.  _ What will it take for us to be done with this?  _ But this time, he felt none of those things. He felt mostly tired. Perhaps this was just the way it was meant to be. It was true that many of his actions during the War and its aftermath had been unforgivable. He couldn’t rightly complain about remaining unforgiven.

He closed his eyes.

“After the War,” he began, “When Kael’thas sent me back to Quel’Thalas to share the magic siphoning, I told myself that whatever I had to do to secure Quel’Thalas was worth it. I told myself that whatever was necessary to prepare for Kael’thas’ return and coronation, that was what I would do. I envisioned a glorious king and a glorious rebirth for his kingdom. I told myself that the ends justified the means.”

He paused.

“I know otherwise now. I think back and I…” his voice hitched. “I see only my folly. I do regret it. I do.”

“I know,” she said softly. “I do. It still hurts.” Unexpectedly, she stood. “I need to blow my nose.”

She disappeared into the kitchen. Rommath remained for a moment on the couch, staring blankly into the flames. Then he stood and followed her.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the unlit room, and when they did, he could see her back was to him and she stood, seemingly looking at nothing. He hesitated, remembering Jalinde’s words:  _ you are the source of all her suffering _ , but then he also remembered her advice:  _ if you can somehow find your way through that, you both might get what you want. _

He walked forward, into the room, letting his feet fall loudly enough for her to hear, and stopped behind her. Then he lifted his hands and rested them, gently, on her shoulders.

“I am sorry that I did it,” he said. “And for… everything that followed. I am sorry for what I did to you, Aurora. I am--” his voice fell to nearly a whisper “--I am so sorry.”

Wordlessly, she lifted her hand to cover one of his, curling her fingers under his palm, her skin warm against his. He bent his head and kissed her knuckles. At his touch, she inhaled sharply. He took that as his cue to go.

Gently, he tried to disentangle his hand from hers but she gripped it tighter, squeezing his fingers with unexpected force.

“Stay, please,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Just for a moment. Your hands are warm. It’s nice. I’m cold.”

Rommath felt his heart skip a beat. He rubbed his thumbs into the place where her neck curved into her shoulders, massaging the muscles there. Instinctively, without thinking, he bowed his head and closed his eyes, nuzzling the top of her head. Her soft hair smelled of herbs and fir needles and wood smoke, and he breathed it all in, greedy for any piece of her. It occurred to him that he shouldn’t have been so bold, but she made no move to pull away. If anything, she leaned into his touch. He let his hands run down her upper arms and slid them around her waist, pulling her close, pressing his face into her hair. She cradled his arms in her own, where they hugged her waist, and they stood together like that in silence, swaying slightly in the dark.

_ Like an old married couple _ , Rommath found himself thinking, but then, what would he know of that? He had never been married. Nonetheless, there was something about the way he and Aurora stood together so entwined that gave him the powerful impression of a worn and easy intimacy.

As soon as he thought it, she began to gently pull away, and he was forced to let her go, his heart crying out with such a sense of loss that it almost physically hurt. But instead of walking away she merely turned in place, wrapping her arms around his waist, leaning her head against his shoulder, holding him close against her. It took his breath away.

He lifted his arms to encircle her, one hand against her head, fingers buried in her hair, pressing his lips to her temple. The last time he had actually held her in his arms had been before their daughter’s birth.

“Aurora, I love you,” he said, words muffled against her hair. He didn’t care how stupid he sounded. He did love her, he loved her so much that it hurt. He had gone most of the last three days trying to pretend that he hadn’t ached every moment for her touch, and she knew it as well as he.

After a time, with a sigh, he released her and pulled away. It was cold without her closeness and he immediately wanted her body back against his, but he knew the moment couldn’t last forever. Tomorrow he would go home, and he would remember this, and he would still love her.

He lifted her hands with his and bent to kiss them, first the fingers of her left hand, then her right. It was a strange and melancholy freedom, to have finally said these things aloud. Theirs was a ridiculous situation, he knew: from mutual disdain, to mutual desire, to a daughter who had never seen her parents share the same room. The ways of the world were odd. It would have to be enough.

When he released her hands she took his and lifted them to her lips, to mirror the kisses he had placed on hers. He hadn’t expected it, and it pleased him. Her breath on his skin was warm and soft, a small and precious comfort. No longer touching now, standing slightly apart, he expected their evening was now at an end, but before he could turn to leave, Aurora reached out to hold his face in her hands.

“So strange,” she said, “that your and Vespara’s faces are so much the same but entirely distinct. I would never confuse the two of you, and yet…”

Whatever she was thinking she left unsaid, her eyes seeming to search his face for something, but what, he had no idea. Her touch had sent his heart again hammering against his ribs like a drum. He closed his eyes, simply trying to savor this intimacy.

When she kissed him, it came as such a shock that he jerked away from her before he could think to stop himself. He found himself standing back, grasping her shoulders, and blinking at her in utter surprise in the darkened kitchen.

“I suppose I misjudged,” Aurora said, withdrawing her hands. Frantically, he grabbed them, held them tight.

“Wait,” he said, trying to order his scattered thoughts, “I--no, I don’t mind, I… what are you  _ doing _ , Aurora?”

“Kissing you,” she replied, a hint of amusement creeping into her voice, “or at least I was.” Abruptly she sobered. “I am sorry. I should have asked first.”

“I… am not upset,” he managed to stammer out. That was true, he was in no way upset. He was, however, extremely confused. “I just… I don’t understand you.”

Aurora laughed softly. “I suppose we’re even on that front, now,” she said. “Light knows I’ve said that to you enough since you’ve been here.” She gently disentangled her hands from his. “Forgive me. It’s late, and sometimes in the dead of night things seem like good ideas.” She shook her head, and her voice softened. “You’re still a very attractive man, Rommath. For what it’s worth, I don’t regret the time I’ve spent with you, even though I know it’s frustrating to both of us, sometimes.” She paused, and he lifted his eyebrows. “Often,” she amended. “Usually.”

He felt the corner of his mouth twitch up.

“I don’t regret that Vespara is your daughter,” she continued. “I regret some of the choices I made after she was born but… I don’t regret that I had her, or that she’s yours.”

Rommath’s chest ached like his ribs were cracked. What he wanted was to know the words, the right words, the magic words, the spell that would turn this moment into… into what? There Aurora stood, eyes shining, face open, beautiful, so beautiful, and only moments before she had stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his.

When he later thought back on this, he couldn’t remember making a conscious choice, but he must have, because his hands found her face and his mouth found her mouth and he kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her. She returned his kisses, more eagerly than he ever would have dared hope, fingers digging into his back, the soft noises of pleasure she made turning his knees to rubber.

Abruptly, Aurora turned her head away and leaned back from him. “Rommath,” she said, laughing a little, “stop. I need to breathe!”

“Er,” he replied, berating himself for such a rookie mistake. “I got carried away.”

“I can tell.” Aurora’s eyes sparkled as she looked up at him.

She slid her hands over his cheeks to wrap her arms behind his head, drawing him to her, and he pulled her in close, holding their bodies together as he kissed her again, softly this time, and slowly, telling himself to enjoy this, to be patient, that it might be the last time. How long they stood there like that, he had no idea, but there was something almost achingly sweet about simply being together and kissing. It recalled to him a different time, a younger time, when the prospect of a kiss was enough to set his head spinning, before his heart had hardened and before the bodies of others had become quite so familiar and banal.

Eventually, they drew apart. Rommath didn’t know what to expect, didn’t dare think beyond this, but she took his hand in hers and led him toward the stairs, and sent his heart back into his mouth. In the living room, the fire had burned down to coals and glowed softly in the grate. Aurora began to climb the staircase and she gently pulled him along with her, up to the landing, pushing open the door to the one room in the house he hadn’t seen: her bedroom. It was larger than Vespara’s, the bed at least a double, a trunk at its foot, and laid with an old, well-worn quilt. A full-length wardrobe stood against one wall and a dresser against another. There were the books whose lack downstairs Rommath had noticed the previous day, crammed into a short bookcase under the window.

Aurora waved her hand and lit the enchanted lantern on the dresser, then drew her finger down the shade, dimming it to a soft, golden glow. The shadows their bodies threw in the low light loomed large, indistinct, blurring at the edges against the walls. When she looked back up to face him, her eyes shone shockingly bright, blue as the summer sky, and the breath left his lungs entirely, rendering him mute and unmoving, staring at the beautiful woman before him. She wasn’t even undressed yet, but she didn’t need to be, he remembered what she looked like naked, and the memory alone was enough to make him shiver with desire.

She stepped forward, untying the sash of her dressing gown and shrugging it off her shoulders to lie pooled on the floor. Her nightclothes were loose linen, simple, functional, but she wore no stays beneath them and her shirt clung to her breasts, the points of her nipples obvious beneath the fabric. He sucked his breath in sharply between his teeth, feeling his erection already beginning to grow. Light, he had never stopped wanting her.

It had been years and years since they had been together, and yet the rhythms of their bodies returned to him easily. He remembered the way she liked her breasts to be touched, remembered how she liked it when he held his hand against the back of her neck, supporting the tilt of her head as they kissed. He remembered how much--how  _ very  _ much--she liked it when he kissed the inside of her wrists, and he lingered there, his fingers twined through hers from behind, pulling her hand back, his tongue tracing circles around the delicate, near-translucent skin. The sounds she made were delicious, breathy gasps and moans, making the heat coalesce in the pit of his belly. When he released her he met her eyes and she stared back at him, cheeks flushed, animal desire burning in the quel’dorei blue.

She, of course, had as good a memory as he. Her hands slid up his chest, under his shirt, pushing the hem up and over his head so she could draw her tongue along his sternum and suck on his nipples. Now it was his turn to moan and tremble against her mouth, her nails pulling the skin of his lower back, slipping beneath the band of his trousers. Sun’s light, he loved it when she grabbed his ass.

The back of his legs bumped up against the side of the bed and he realized she’d been pushing him backward. He laid himself down, the old quilt soft against his skin. Aurora gazed at him from above, her eyes sweeping down his bare chest, before she lifted her shirt over her head and discarded it, then pushed her trousers off her hips. Eyes fixed on her--on her round, lovely breasts, the dark yellow curls between her legs, the smooth strength of her thighs--he lifted his hips so she could pull off his trousers to join hers on the floor.

“Aurora,” he said, the sound half strangled. His erection was hard enough to ache.  _ Light _ , he could only think,  _ oh Light. _ She smiled as she straddled him, spreading her thighs, one knee on either side of his legs. He ran his hands up to her waist as she leaned forward, bracing her weight on one hand. The other slipped between his legs, palm sliding up the length of his cock, fingers curling into a fist. He arched his back and moaned.

“Aurora,” he called again, “ _ Aurora! _ Oh, sun and stars…”

He heard her laugh, mischievous, delighted. Yes, she’d always delighted in how she could make him writhe beneath her hands and tongue. As if he didn’t feel the same when he did it to her.

He pulled her down to kiss him, open mouthed. Her breasts pressed into his chest and he could imagine how she looked from behind, her ass bobbing in the air with her face down against him while she worked his cock with one hand. He growled into their kisses, lifting his hips into her touch, tightening his arms around her. He meant to roll her over, so he could be on top, but, sensing his intention she pushed away, sitting up, and pressed her hand into his chest.

“Not yet,” she said. Her lips curled into a smile. “Not just yet.”

She leaned back over him, hands on either side of his head, and delicately kissed the line of his jaw, near where it met his ear.

“I want to do this to you first,” she whispered. “All over.”

His skin flushed hot with anticipation as she began to make good on her word, working her lips down his neck, then his chest, his arms, and his abdomen. She used his runic tattoos as a guide, following the red lines with her tongue, circling back to the places she knew he liked best: the inside of his elbows, his nipples, the lines of his ribs, the inside of his thighs. It was maddening, infuriating, delightful. He wanted to flip her over and fuck her and he never wanted it to end.

At last, she dragged her lips across his navel, kissing down the line of black hairs there, and took his cock into her mouth.

He exhaled in a hiss as he tilted his head back into the pillows, clenching his fists at his sides. Light, oh Light, her mouth was hot and wet and her  _ tongue _ , her tongue was amazing and her perfect lips closed around him and tightened, pulling on his skin, sucking…

All at once, his throat and chest constricted almost painfully, his fingernails digging into the skin of his palms.  _ No _ , he thought, nearly frantic.

“Wait,” he said, his voice tumbling out of his throat before he fully realized what he was saying. “Stop, Aurora. Stop!”

She stopped. She sat up, wide-eyed.

“Rommath?” she said his name tentatively. It was like a bucket of cold water into his face. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away. He couldn’t look at her and he didn’t need to. In his mind’s eye he saw her face, stony, expressionless, grimly enduring, while an enraged, black-haired Farstrider came just this side of calling her a whore.

_ The circumstance of sucking his cock? _

“Rommath?” she asked again, shattering the vivid, infuriating memory. Her voice was soft. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” he replied immediately. “Sun’s light, no, Aurora. You did not.” He forced himself to turn his head toward her and open his eyes. “You did not.”

She was frowning at him, leaning on her hand, one leg curled up beneath her. Her brow furrowed with concern and puzzlement. He knew why. He had never been anything but an enthusiastic lover. This was unprecedented, and he felt his cheeks begin to burn with shame and rage and hoped that the combination of his skin color and the dark room would hide that fact from Aurora.  _ Damn you, Hawkspear.  _ He hurled the thought into the aether with all the force of his fury.  _ Damn you straight to the pits of hell _ .

“Rommath, something is wrong.” Aurora’s voice shook him back out of himself. “Did… something happen? Did someone… do something to you, since we last…?”

“Light, no,” he interrupted. He didn’t want her thinking that. “No, by the sun. Aurora.” He pushed himself up onto his elbows, sat up against the pillows.

She was still frowning. She reached her hand forward as if to touch his face, then withdrew it suddenly, pulling it to her chest. He wanted to howl.

_ Damn you damn you damn you damn you damn-- _

“What is it, then?” she asked. “Forgive me, but I remember you always rather enjoyed it when I…”

She trailed off. Her expression changed.

“Renthar,” she said.

He heard her exhale and could imagine she closed her eyes, but he didn’t see it, because he had covered his face with his hand. Rommath had survived many humiliations, had clung to and defended his pride many times, but this,  _ this _ … damn that Ranger Lord.

“I didn’t realize it bothered you that much, what he said,” Aurora said softly.

“Did it not bother you?” He pulled his knees to his chin. Suddenly he felt his nudity like a dagger.

Aurora sighed and slid off the other side of the bed. He raised his eyes at last, wondering where she was going, but she merely retrieved her dressing gown from the floor and slid her arms into the sleeves, wrapping it back around her and tying the sash. Then she pulled a blanket out of the storage trunk, and climbed back onto the bed.

“Here,” she said. “You look cold.”

Silently, he draped the blanket around himself. He swore that if he ever saw Renthar Hawkspear again he would burn him to ashes.

“To answer your question,” Aurora said, “Yes, it bothers me. But I’ve heard worse, frankly.” She tilted her head slightly to one side. “From you, even.”

A sock in the gut. He closed his eyes and rested his head on his knees. The wool blanket still smelled faintly of hay and animal warmth.

“I’ve heard worse from Renthar, too,” she added. “And I know how to be cruel with words, as well.”

Yes, Rommath knew that. He’d been on the receiving end of her loathing, more than once. Yet he remained silent. Aurora sighed again.

“We were engaged, Renthar and I. Long ago, before the War. That’s why he takes it so personally. The other rangers here… they don’t necessarily like me, but mostly I think they just don’t care. It’s salacious gossip to them, nothing more. But Renthar… No. He’ll never forgive me for being with you. If it had been someone else, perhaps. But not you.”

_ Anyone but me _ . Of course. He would never outrun his reputation. As he sat there, unmoving, he felt her hand in his hair again.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “If I had realized… I would have skipped the oral sex part.”

He laughed, but it came out hard.

“You must think me pathetic,” he said at last.

“Rommath.” Her tone of voice was chiding. “Don’t be stupid.” She paused. “Honestly, it’s kind of sweet.”

He lifted his head, puzzled, and looked over at her. She was half smiling, but something about her eyes struck him as sad. She intuited his unspoken question.

“It’s almost like you want to defend my honor, or something of the sort,” she said. “I’m… I’m surprised you cared so much what anyone thought of me.”

“Ah yes,” he replied, bitterly. “The indifferent Grand Magister and his famous heart of stone.”

Aurora withdrew her hand.

“I used to think that was true, yes,” she said. “And you must admit, you never did anything to dissuade anyone of that opinion. Because it was safer, I imagine. But it’s been a long time since I believed you indifferent, Rommath. In fact, I think the opposite is true. I think you cared so much that the invasion, the Kirin Tor’s betrayal, the endless wars… it destroyed you. And I think you vented your pain at those injustices on the rest of us.”

His breath hitched in his throat.

“That’s a… a generous interpretation of events,” he said.

“Maybe. Maybe not. I didn’t say you were absolved.”

He laughed again, more softly this time.

“I gave up on absolution a long time ago, Priestess.”

“I don’t think that’s true, either,” she replied. She reached out to stroke his hair again, tracing a lock as it fell down the side of his face, brushing the backs of her knuckles against his skin. “Why else would you keep coming back?”

Why else, indeed? He closed his eyes, then felt her other palm against his cheek. With both her hands, she gently turned his head toward her, and kissed him softly, tenderly, on the lips. When they parted, she held his gaze with her eyes and his face with her hands.

“It’s late,” she said. “I’m tired. I think it’s time for bed.”

_ Not in the fun way, this time _ , he thought, and reminded himself that it was his fault. He nodded at Aurora.

He knew it was stupid, but he held the blanket around his waist while he retrieved his clothing and returned to Vespara’s room. Not until he had shut the door behind him did he let it fall to the floor and even then he turned his back to the mirror while he redressed. Aurora was kind, but his embarrassment was nonetheless profound. Vespara would be forty-one this year, and the last time he and Aurora had made love had been before she was born. One of those last two or three encounters had resulted in his daughter’s conception, he knew. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face with his hands, listening to the still-steady rain tap against the window.

_ Way to blow it _ , he thought. ... _ Or not. As the case may be _ .

He snorted at his own joke and that’s when he knew he really was tired. With a sigh, he pulled the covers around him, and was instantly asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

By morning, the rain had stopped, but the sky remained overcast. Water dripped steadily from the eaves and dove gray clouds still hung above the treetops, visible through the window next to Vespara’s bed. Rommath had actually been awake for a while, but he hadn’t gotten up. He could say he was lounging, enjoying the last of his time away from Quel’Thalas, but even to himself he knew that was a feeble lie. In reality, he was still embarrassed about the previous night, and was avoiding Aurora.

Eventually, hunger drove him to face her downstairs. Hunger, and not wanting to piss on the floor.

He didn’t change, just padded down the stairs in his bare feet and pyjamas, hair falling loose and tangled down his back. In the kitchen, breakfast was laid out but Aurora wasn’t there, nor was she in the garden or anywhere else that he could find. His stomach growled and he considered just eating without her, then frowned. No, he didn’t want that. He wanted her here. He wanted her with him. He would wait.

Erilanna’s poetry book was on the coffee table in front of the fireplace where Aurora had left it the previous night. Rommath thumbed through it as he sat on the couch, admiring the watercolors for what had to have been the thousandth time, skimming the verses, remembering which had been his favorites growing up, and which had been his sister’s. This had been his older sister’s book, in fact. He couldn’t remember if he had ever told Aurora that. He would have to, she would like that.

He stopped on a particular page, no longer skimming. The verse was familiar, and he read it slowly, savoring the turns of phrase. The writing was so absorbing that he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him until they were very close, and barely had a chance to lift his head before he felt the hand touch his shoulder.

“Good morning,” Aurora said. “I thought I’d be back before you were up.”

“Good morning,” he replied, closing the book. “Where did you go?”

“For a walk,” she said. “I had some thinking to do. Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Good, I’m hungry.” She withdrew her hand from his shoulder, and he followed her to the kitchen. He wondered what kind of thinking prompted her to leave the house so early on this dreary, overcast morning but wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know.

“Are you still planning on leaving today?” she asked him, setting the kettle on to boil.

“I am, yes,” he replied, sitting down. “Do you object?”

Aurora didn’t answer right away. While he waited, he chewed on a piece of dried pear, the fruit undoubtedly originating from the tree in front of the house. The yellow cakes from two days ago were back, much to his delight, again coupled with jam and cream. They were a bit stale but he didn’t care, the tea would wash it down.

The kettle whistled, and Aurora busied herself fixing their tea, his question still unanswered. Eventually she turned away from the stove, a mug in each hand, and sat across from him.

“I don’t object,” she said finally, setting his tea before him. “I know you’re busy in Quel’Thalas.” She paused. “It’s been nice to have you.”

“Has it?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. She laughed softly.

“I thought we went over this last night. Yes, it’s been frustrating, but nonetheless… I’m glad you came.”

Hearing the words  _ last night _ made him internally wince. He slathered cream onto one of the cakes. He did not want to think about last night.

“Do you have many visitors?” he asked.

“Other than my acolytes?” she asked, blowing on her tea before taking a sip. “Some of the Wildhammer dwarves stop by occasionally. Traska comes by about once a month to talk shop--she’s a draenei priest who lives at the lodge. Jalinde visits me regularly too, as you probably guessed. But she goes on active patrol for weeks on end, so it’s inconsistent.”

There was that needle-surge of envy again.  _ Ah, yes, Jalinde. _ He cleared his throat.

“Is Jalinde your lover?” he asked.

Aurora’s eyebrows arched practically into her hairline. “Well if  _ that _ isn’t a personal question.” Then he saw the corner of her lip twitch up. “Not that I’m surprised you’re asking. You should see the look on your face.”

Rommath felt his cheeks heat up. He couldn’t possibly be that obvious. Could he? Aurora knew him better than most. He shoved a piece of cake into his mouth.

“If you must know, the answer is no, she is not my lover.” Aurora paused, looking sly. “Anymore.”

Rommath swallowed so fast he nearly coughed. “I knew it.”

Aurora rolled her eyes as she took a bite of her own cake. “Of course you’d be the jealous type.”

“I just noticed how you acted with her,” he snapped back. “No one looks at a friend like that.”

“Yes, well, it didn’t work out, so you can stop moping about it,” she retorted. “And since you’re going to ask why, it is this: monogamy is very much not Jalinde’s preference, and the opposite is very much not mine.”

Rommath had not been going to ask why, and her explanation surprised him. He wouldn’t have expected it. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“I apologize for prying,” he said.

“I appreciate that,” she replied. She tilted her head to one side and said nothing more. In silence, he focused on finishing his breakfast. The cakes were still good and rich and his tea cool enough to drink without burning his tongue. Suddenly he realized that he might not return to the cottage again any time soon, if at all, and his throat constricted painfully. He looked up at Aurora, the idea that he might go another six years without laying eyes on her like a blade to his neck.

“Aurora,” he said, his voice sudden and loud in the quiet. She looked up, attentive, and he swallowed. “Come to Inthicar for Solstice. Please. I’ll tell Vespara to come, too. We could…”

_ We could be a family. _

“...We could all be together.”

Aurora didn’t answer for a while, but cocked her head to one side, studying him. He did his best to be patient, to wait, but it was agony. He wanted this so much, and that was terrifying.

“I think I’d like that,” she said slowly. His heart leaped. He hadn’t realized that he’d been holding his breath.

“How… long do you usually celebrate at Inthicar?” she asked, and he blinked. “When should I arrive?”

“A week?” he replied. “Maybe two? You can arrive whenever you’d like.”

“Send me an invitation,” she said, “with a teleport scroll. When you’re ready to have me. I’ll come then.”

“I will,” he managed to say, his voice steadier than he felt. In his chest, his heart pounded against his ribs, racing with anticipation. She would be there. Vespara would be there, too--he would beg her, if he had to. The three of them would be together for the first time. He almost couldn’t bear to think about it, lest he wake and discover it was nothing but a dream.

After breakfast he returned to Vespara’s room to dress and pack his things. It was bittersweet to do so; he knew he would see her again soon, but he still didn’t want to leave. At last, he folded the final piece of clothing and closed his travel bag. It was time to go.

Downstairs, Aurora was waiting for him, carrying a small box made of stiff paper, tied with string.

“The last of the cakes,” she said when she saw him looking. “You seemed to like them a lot.”

“I do,” he replied. “Thank you. I will send word closer to Solstice. In a month or so, I imagine.” She nodded, and took a deep breath.

“It’s been… difficult… having you here, Rommath. Difficult and wonderful. I mean that. It’s… it’s complicated. But I’m glad you came.”

“I… agree,” he replied. “Difficult and wonderful is exactly right.” He laughed a little. “I am also glad I came. Thank you for having me.”

He hesitated, then leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek, lightly, tenderly.  _ I love you _ . Aurora reached up and touched his face in response, then opened the door.

Outside it was misty, not quite raining, but not dry. The autumn morning languished, no sun breaking the clouds to burn away the pale fog. Rommath walked out past the fruit trees, past the planters that he knew come spring would be bursting with flowers, and finally, past the perimeter of protection he had established around Aurora’s house with the runes. When he knew he would be safe to teleport, he turned and looked back toward the house. It was hard to see through the mist, but he could make out Aurora’s figure, still standing in the door. She raised a hand to him.

He raised his own, and began to cast the spell.

_ Farewell, my love,  _ he thought, and was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, thank you. I know this is a strange pairing and makes a lot of assumptions. What can I say, I have a lot of feelings about blood and high elves. :)


End file.
